Sigh No More
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: They start criss-crossing the country in search of Stefan, but somewhere along the way, they end up looking for something else: the love that will set them both free. D/E, on a road trip to salvation. 10-parter.
1. Empty In The Valley of Your Heart

**A/N: I can't resist writing something like this. It'll be around ten chapters. **

**By the way, I'm not really interested in the logistics of such a road trip, or all the multitudes of problems left behind (i.e. Jeremy seeing dead people). This will be all about the romance, because these days, Delena are killing me with their kisses and confessions.**

**Seriously, I think that finale gave me a heart attack.**

**But anyways. Title (and reference in summary) from "Sigh No More" by Mumford & Sons. Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, who kicks my butt and makes me better. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_But I will hold on hope  
>And I won't let you choke<br>On the noose around your neck  
>- "The Cave" by Mumford &amp; Sons<em>

At first, Elena thinks it's the sunlight streaming through her windows that wakes her. Mystic Falls has been dreary and grey since the joint funeral; the glowing light surprises her. She thinks glumly that the weather certainly doesn't match her mood.

She's sulking. She's _been_ sulking. That's really the only way to put it.

When she groggily opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is the very cocky, exceedingly annoying (not to mention extraordinarily handsome, but she tends to ignore that part) vampire who simultaneously makes her life a living hell and a tantalizing paradise.

Although…ever since Stefan left, Damon has been nothing short of a godsend. (But then, ever since Stefan left, everything has been exacerbated until she can't take it anymore.)

She sighs tiredly; she's always tired these days. "What do you want, Damon?" The words ache.

Damon grins widely. "I thought you'd like to know that I found a lead and I'm leaving to find Stefan," he says airily, fingering her bedspread as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

She immediately sits up in bed, not even bothering to pull the covers up to her chin (he's seen it all before anyways). Her jaw might drop, but she's too busy processing this startling information to register anything but his words.

"You're leaving to find Stefan?" She echoes stupidly. She knows she's heard him right, but a part of her – the selfish part of her, the part that wants him to stay right here with her so she doesn't lose him, too – hopes she's heard wrong.

He chuckles under his breath, gracing her with a sunny smile. Of course she recognizes it as a defense mechanism – he's scared for his brother, scared for all of them – but still, it grates.

"Yes," he says smoothly. He doesn't explain himself or add anything else, which is so typical that she rolls her eyes.

And then she blinks at him, because he's _leaving_.

Of course, she knew he would leave eventually. It only makes sense. Who else is going to find Stefan? He's not going to come back on his own.

She surmises that maybe she's just been too busy mourning Stefan to think about how they're going to get him back. She's been moping around, groaning that he's lost forever. It's not like her, and she almost hates herself for it. When did she become the girl whose world stops spinning because she lost a boy?

More to the point, when did she become the girl who just gives up on said boy?

But she can do this now. She's strong enough to do this now.

So she gets out of bed, ignoring the leering glances Damon sends in her direction, and walks over to her closet. She starts pulling clothes out of her dresser, mentally calculating how many shirts she'll need for this impromptu trip. She doesn't ask Damon how long they'll be gone because she knows he doesn't know – and even if he did know, he wouldn't tell her.

She can feel Damon's gaze on her (most likely on her butt, but she's used to it by now), feel his eyes flood with curiosity. Still, she ignores him.

(Sometimes it's just easier to ignore him.)

When she's grabbed her Converses and all the v-necks in her closet, she turns and heads to the bathroom, collecting her toiletries. She doesn't let herself think about the logistics. She most certainly doesn't let herself think about the sheer amount of time she'll be spending with Damon in the not-so-distant future, because ever since he almost died, she hasn't been able to look at him without blushing. Instead, she simply piles materials into the bag she uses for sleepovers with Bonnie and Caroline and pulls on her favorite jeans.

She comes out of the bathroom to find Damon sitting on her bed, a familiar look of mingling annoyance and indulgence settled on his face.

"Okay," she says assuredly, pulling her hair into a ponytail. She checks her watch – 9:00 am. She can work with this. "I'm ready. We should probably tell Alaric that we're leaving, but otherwise, I think we're good."

Damon sighs, the kind of sigh she hates, because she knows exactly what it means.

"Elena," he breathes gently, and the part of her that has always needed him in some capacity gives in a little bit. He infuses her name with a million different emotions like only he can, and it makes her weak.

She waits patiently, but he doesn't say anything else. She wonders if he simply cannot think of any compelling reasons why she shouldn't come with him, but she dismisses that idea immediately. There are a thousand reasons why her presence on this dark road trip is a horrible, horrible idea.

But she wants Damon to spell all those reasons out for her, just so she can try and refute them. So she waits.

He stands up after a moment of silence, stretching his arms over his head, exposing a sliver of white, muscled skin that would make her shiver under normal circumstances. Right now, though, all she can hear (all she can _feel_) is his voice:

_But I love you. You should know that_.

She doesn't think she'll ever be able to forget those words.

He strides towards her, his eyes blazing with determination. "I was really hoping you wouldn't try to come with me," he pouts, shaking his head ruefully, as if he should have known this would happen (and she thinks he probably should have). "Your refusal to acknowledge how dangerous this will be for you makes this so much harder for me. You do realize that, right?"

She just nods vigorously. She never said she was going to make this easy for him. She has an agenda here, and she doesn't care whether he approves. It doesn't matter that it'll be dangerous for her. In fact, the danger is the last thing she's thinking about right now. It just doesn't seem possible that her Stefan is really and truly _gone_.

"You know why I have to go with you," she coaxes softly, pleading with him to just understand her (he's always understood her, after all), understand why she _needs_ to do this. On impulse, she reaches out and covers his hands with hers, like she did right before he force-fed her his blood (like she'll always do, even if it means he hurts her).

His gaze flits to their entwined hands.

He nods solemnly. "I get it," he promises, his eyes unreadable, but she knows he means it. "Like I said, I know it'll always be Stefan."

The unexpected reference to the night they thought he was dying hits her like a blow to her stomach. She gasps for air, and she must look frightful, because his hands are on her face almost immediately.

"Shh," he whispers, his voice soothing and melodic, and she can't help but imagine him murmuring that same word to the baby he'll never have. "Shh, shh, it's okay, I've got you."

(He always has her.)

She claps a hand over her mouth, tears spilling from her eyes because she just feels so goddamn _guilty_. She shouldn't have kissed him, even if she thought he was dying. She shouldn't have nestled herself into him and given him so much of herself. She shouldn't have done any of it, but she did, and now she's facing the consequences.

"I shouldn't have said that," he says haltingly, like explaining himself will fix anything (it won't). "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have –"

"No," she protests, shaking her head. She can't let him blame himself anymore; she was a willing participant in whatever happened that night. "No. It's not your fault."

Relief seeps into his gaze, a strikingly beautiful image she can't ignore.

He steps away, his hands gradually leaving her skin (she misses him already). "I do get it," he repeats earnestly, running a hand through that perfectly mussed raven black hair. "But I can't let you come with me. You can call me chauvinistic or stupid or selfish or whatever else you want, but the fact of the matter is, I can't keep you safe. I won't risk your life."

She glares at him. She should have known he would say something along those lines. No matter how many times she proves that she doesn't need to be "kept safe" or whatever (she hates how patronizing that sounds), both Salvatore brothers insist on protecting her. It's frustrating and touching all at once.

"That doesn't matter," she protests.

He arches an eyebrow. "Oh?"

She shakes her head in exasperation. She doesn't want to use the best, most surefire weapon in her arsenal, but she'll do it if she has to. The fact that he loves her is etched indelibly in the surface of her fractured heart, and she never wants to use that knowledge against him. But this is Stefan they're talking about.

(She wonders if she'd feel the same way if it were Damon that she and Stefan were talking about.)

"I can't stay here," she announces, and it sounds so pitiful that her bones ache. "I have to go with you."

Damon purses his lips. "Elena, I know you have a death wish, but I –"

"We _need_ to get Stefan back," she interrupts him savagely, crossing her arms. "Doesn't that matter at all to you?"

(It's a low blow, she knows, but she doesn't mind resorting to low blows if it means going with him.)

He levels her with the sort of glare that makes her feel hot and cold in equal measures, but she stands her ground. She's learned the hard way that she can't back down before he does.

Finally, he just sighs again, a sound that's heavy with resignation. "Well, at least I'll know Klaus won't be terrorizing you here," he jokes, his voice strained.

She sees through him right away, of course. He's absolutely _terrified_. Terrified for her, and terrified beyond belief for Stefan.

She knows he's scared that human blood will be too much for Stefan. She knows he's scared that when they do find Stefan (she won't allow herself to consider the possibility that they might not find him), they won't recognize him. And she knows he's scared of exposing her to the horrors of a ripper, to the man his brother might become.

So she takes a step forward and whispers, "It'll be okay. We'll be okay."

He shakes his head. "It won't, Elena," he murmurs darkly, closing the distance between them and kissing her forehead. "That's the problem. It won't be okay."

She shivers and wraps her arms around him, because she can't imagine doing anything else.

…

Damon is with her when they tell Alaric and Jeremy about their (admittedly crazy) plan. She needs him here because he connects with her history teacher on a level she has never understood, and he cares about her brother in a way that makes her ache sometimes.

(He's such a contradiction that it hurts.)

He guides her into her family room, his hand light and welcome on the small of her back. The sounds of furious clicking reach her ears, and she realizes with a fond smile that the boys of the Gilbert household are playing a video game. Ever since the funeral, the house has been eerily quiet, and it's wonderful to hear it brim with noise again.

The boys – because Alaric really is a boy, especially when he tells Jeremy he plans to "beat his ass" at Call of Duty – don't look up when Elena and Damon enter the room. Elena idly thinks that it's probably because they've become so accustomed to seeing the two of them together that their joint, simultaneous entrance doesn't even register anymore.

Elena refuses to think about what that means.

Finally, Damon clears his throat politely (Elena smiles wryly at the thought of the infamous Damon Salvatore being _polite_ about anything), and Alaric and Jeremy glance at the pair expectantly.

"What's up?" Alaric asks casually, propping his hands behind his head in that universal guy gesture. He looks so nonchalant that Elena bites her lip. She hates to bring tension into his relaxed frame, hates to seep worry into the eyes that have already seen so much pain.

But she also hates the idea of him not knowing what she's planning on doing – or, more importantly, why she's doing it.

So she raises her head high, indescribably grateful for Damon's comforting fingers on her skin. She holds Alaric's curious gaze and says assertively, "We have something to tell you."

Jeremy's eyes widen. "Don't tell me you're pregnant," he warns.

Elena stares at him blankly. _What_?

And then, she can't help but burst into laughter.

"How – would – that – even – be – possible?" She manages to choke out in between giggles. "Vampires can't procreate. That's the one thing you don't have to worry about!"

She leans on Damon for support as she keels over, clutching his shoulder as tears of mirth slip unchecked down her cheeks. This whole situation is so improbable that it's just hysterical.

(It's so sad, too, because she'll never have children with either Salvatore brother.)

Alaric starts laughing, too, and Jeremy is indignant, yelling, "What? I'm not allowed to worry that my big sister might get pregnant?" and "Magic exists! It could happen."

Even Damon joins in, chuckling softly.

Elena realizes she hasn't laughed this much in a long time. She hasn't had this much _fun_ in a long time.

She turns to look at Damon after a while, waves of laughter reverberating through her body. His eyes (God, those bottomless eyes) are glittering with some emotion she can't name, and she knows somehow that it's because her first instinct was not to proclaim that with Stefan away, there was no one around to impregnate her.

No, she didn't immediately push away the possibility that _Damon_ could…

She shrugs off the thought. She knows she shouldn't read so much into it, really. She knows she was simply too wrapped up in the absurdity of her brother thinking she could be pregnant to contemplate the man beside her. She knows all this.

And still, she cannot stop herself from holding his gaze a heartbeat too long.

Finally, the laughter dies away, and Alaric pulls himself to his feet, warmly asking, "So what did you two want to tell us?"

Damon and Elena exchange a wary look. As usual, the glance is full of innuendo, laced with their shared history and common ground. She can always find him in a crowded room, because his eyes are familiar to her, as familiar as the walls of her bedroom. She can always tell what he's thinking when he looks at her.

(She often wonders if the same is true for him.)

His fingers slip into hers, almost as if it's second-nature, and he squeezes her hand. She finds it's all the comfort she needs.

She turns to face the only family she has left. "We're going to go find Stefan," she explains, shifting her weight from foot to anxious foot.

Jeremy is on his feet in an instant. "No," he growls, wagging a finger at her. "Absolutely not."

She sighs. It's not like she didn't expect Jeremy to resist. She even expected him to resist vehemently.

But she's just so _tired_.

She misses Stefan, misses him so much that if it weren't for the people trying their hardest to cheer her up every day, she'd probably waste away. And sometimes, she just wallows in the horrible knowledge that Jenna and John died for her, and Klaus is still alive.

So she just nods. She doesn't have the energy to fight her brother on this, especially since she's the older sibling here. He's not supposed to be challenging her (even if lately, it's all he does).

"Yes, Jeremy," she says unsteadily. "We're going. We have to."

Her baby brother shakes his head furiously, stalking towards her with such grim determination that her heart breaks a little more. (She never wanted him to know this world, or to have to grow up so fast.)

"No, you don't have to go," he argues. "Damon has to go. You could stay. You could let him go alone."

Elena stiffens. She can't even consider that. It's unthinkable.

"Not an option," she says swiftly, crossing her arms over her chest in a feeble attempt to stand her ground.

Jeremy raises his eyebrows, looking thoroughly bewildered. "Why not, Elena? Damon can take care of himself. Why do you have to –"

"I _said_ it's not an option," Elena interrupts him, her voice steely. She doesn't mean to glare at him, but she feels too strongly about this to back down.

And frankly, she doesn't know why she's so intent on going with Damon. She knows he'll keep himself safe (at least, her mind is well aware, even if her heart is less convinced). She knows that he'll probably find Stefan faster without her human needs getting in the way. She's also certain that she won't like what she sees: carnage and sick acts and blood in places that will make her stomach roil. She knows all this, she does.

But she has to go. She has to see for herself what Stefan has become.

It's also more than that. She doesn't think she would survive with both Salvatore brothers traipsing around the world without her. Somehow, they have become a part of her, and to relinquish them both would be equivalent to suicide. With Stefan gone, she has to be by Damon's side. That's all there is to it.

Jeremy starts yelling at her now, his brow furrowing in worry. She cocks her head and tunes him out (she doesn't want to disrespect him like that, but she can't listen to this right now). She lets her eyes wander to Alaric and Damon, who are engaged in the kind of hushed, emotional conversation they have often (more often, in fact, than either of them would ever admit). She listens in, because she knows Damon won't mind.

"Do you really have to go?" Alaric asks Damon quietly, his face a mix of pain, regret and resignation.

Damon sighs. He is still holding Elena's hand, for reasons neither of them cares to dissect.

"Yes," he murmurs at last, just as quietly and sadly, the faint hint of a grimace making a home on his face. "We have to go. The longer Stefan is gone, the harder it will be to bring him back when we do find him. If we don't go now, we won't find the Stefan we all know."

Alaric nods slowly. "And you have to take Elena with you?" There's an ache in his voice that makes tears spark in Elena's eyes.

Damon hangs his head; Elena squeezes his fingers. They are far apart now, their arms outstretched in the effort to keep their hands intertwined, but somehow, they are closer than ever (at least in all the ways that matter).

"Yes," he says again. "I have to take her with me."

It takes Alaric a moment to respond. He blinks a few times, exhales quickly. He looks stricken.

And then, he takes a step forward, his eyes full of a grief that has not fled since Klaus plunged a stake through Jenna's heart. He deliberates for a moment, nods to himself. And then, as if he meant to do it long ago, he reaches out and pulls Damon into an embrace.

Damon releases Elena's fingers and returns Alaric's hug at the same moment Elena bites back her tears and crushes herself into Jeremy.

They all stand there for a long moment, fear and hope trembling in the air around them. Jeremy wraps his arms around Elena hesitantly, breathing her in like he worries he might never see her again (and she worries he might be right). And Damon and Alaric clutch each other like they should have when Damon's life hung in the balance.

"Take care of her," Alaric whispers to Damon, a gruff, emotional whisper that breaks Elena in two.

And Elena feels the words more than she hears them:

"I will."

And then, as if they're both thinking the same thing (and she smiles because she knows they are), their hands dangle in the air and their fingers find each other, once again.

(They'll always find each other in the end.)

…

Elena doesn't think Bonnie will ever forgive her for chasing after Stefan. Frankly, she understands why the witch thinks it's such a bad idea – if Damon is to be believed (and she believes him unequivocally because he's all she has left), she shouldn't even _want_ to find Stefan, not to mention Klaus isn't exactly one of her allies.

But even so, this is something she has to do.

When Elena tells her best friend about her and Damon's plans, Bonnie screams and stamps her feet and barely manages to stop herself from suggesting that maybe Elena's better off. Elena just bites her tongue and takes the abuse without so much as a grimace.

Finally, Bonnie deflates. There are tears lacing her caramel skin and a catch in her voice, but she pulls Elena into her arms and whispers, "Be safe."

(Elena wants to cry, because that is the one thing she cannot promise.)

Bonnie buries her face in her childhood friend's hair. "Just please God, be safe."

Elena nods fiercely, but she can't quite muster a smile; she feels weak. "I'll be with Damon," she sniffs into Bonnie's neck, ignoring the sudden rush of warmth coursing through the agonizing hole in her chest. "He'll keep me safe."

Bonnie kisses Elena's hair, tears racing down her face.

"Yes," she breathes, her voice full of relief. "He'll keep you safe."

Elena holds her tighter and wonders what it means that even Bonnie, whose judgmental nature has taught her to fear vampires, believes that Damon will protect her.

…

Caroline proves the hardest to say goodbye to, unexpectedly.

The blonde cries her eyes out (which Elena thought was just an expression before today), sniffling in an utterly heartbreaking way. She shakes out her luminous curls and whispers, "I'm really going to miss you."

Elena's throat tightens. She's been determined to distance herself from these inevitable farewells, mostly because she believes she'll be back soon (with Stefan in tow, of course). She hasn't really seen a point in unnecessarily stressing herself, not when she is already grieving so many lives.

But she remembers what she said to Damon so long ago: "Caroline does have some really annoying traits, but we've been friends since the first grade and that means something to me."

She's surprised to find that it means a lot more to her now, when her childhood friend is cool to the touch and, if possible, even more beautiful than the girl who thought she could never measure up. (Not to mention that she's practically lost all those annoying traits.) They've been through so much together, and she knows she's going to miss her almost more than she can bear.

She also can't deny that she knows that if she ever considers turning, she might do it for this girl right here. This effervescent, compassionate, _special _girl.

The thought of Damon is heavy between them, of course, coloring their exchange in a way that almost feels organic. (Sometimes she thinks Damon connects them more than anything else.) Damon changed so many things for Caroline, most of them horrible and irrevocable. But he made her this, and Elena can't hate him for that. He almost died saving Caroline from the sacrifice, and Elena is surprised by what that means to her.

(Besides, Damon has changed so many things for her, too, even if she can't admit it to herself.)

Caroline stares expectantly at her, confusion flashing through her pretty eyes. Elena thinks that maybe, just maybe, the blond vampire has taught her the most about resilience.

Elena hugs Caroline fiercely, relishing how little she has changed in the past few months, how little her new life has poisoned her.

"I love you, Car," she whispers, biting back tears. "I love you for everything that you are, and I love you for everything you've always been."

And when the vampire Damon can never resist calling Barbie steps back and smiles brightly through her shimmering tears, Elena knows she's said exactly the right thing.

…

Before Elena and Damon leave Mystic Falls, she visits the various Gilbert graves scattered about the cemetery. She walks through the tall grass with a bouquet of Miranda Gilbert's favorite flowers and lets her eyes linger on the hot, unyielding sun. It hurts, but then, everything hurts these days.

She can feel Damon behind her, presumably making sure she doesn't do something stupid like pull out a dagger and stab herself (after all, she's done it before), but she pays him no mind.

Lately, he's everywhere.

She kneels before her mother's grave, tracing the faded letters on the weathered headstone. It's strange to lose her parents so simultaneously early and late in life, she muses. She can still remember the timbres of their voices and the precise shades of their eyes, but she realizes she never really knew them. So many facets of their lives will forever remain a mystery to her.

She sighs and stands up after a long moment, her tired limbs creaking as she attempts to pull herself together. Her hair feels hot and heavy on her neck, and she sweeps the long locks unceremoniously off her shoulders. Sometimes she feels so far away from whom she used to be, when she wore her waist-length hair like a badge of honor and her eyeliner like a promise.

Finally, she turns her back on the four graves that lie in a sorrowful, aching row. She closes her eyes and sends a prayer upwards, for the woman who burned before her eyes.

She lets her eyes flutter open, and there is Damon.

He just nods minutely, and she fights the urge to look away. They haven't talked about everything that happened between them while she lay in his arms (tears and "I love you" and that _kiss_), and she's glad. No matter what it meant, it's the last thing she should be thinking about right now.

He strides over to her, his face serious, morose. His eyes are practically brimming with compassion. She wonders why only he has managed to comfort her in the days since Stefan's departure.

"Are you ready?" He asks her softly, grazing her elbow with his hand like it's the most natural gesture in the world (she trembles).

She stares at him for a long, vulnerable moment. She's not quite sure she's breathing.

She looks away from him at last, gazing instead at the neatly trimmed flowers by his feet. Like so many things in her life, the blossoms are ephemeral; they will fade in a couple months.

"I'm ready."

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update on Monday or Tuesday.<strong>


	2. It's Getting Dark, Darling

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the kind, encouraging reviews! You all seriously mean the world to me. I'll be posting every two or three days, by the way, and I'll be switching between Damon and Elena's POVs. And now, on to the next chapter, in which Damon and Elena hit the road and may or not talk about the infamous kiss…guess you'll have to read on and see ;)**

**Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman. Chapter title from "Thistle & Weeds" (all song-related stuff will be Mumford & Sons from now on). Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_And if your strife strikes at your sleep,  
><em>_Remember spring swaps snow for leaves.  
><em>_You'll be happy and wholesome again  
><em>_When the city clears and sun ascends.  
><em>_- "Winter Winds" by Mumford & Sons_

They head south first, mostly because Bonnie's ancestors deigned to tell her that Georgia is a good place to start. (Damon snaps that it would have been a lot more helpful if the witches had just told them where Stefan is, but Bonnie glares at him and Elena gives him her trademark pleading eyes, so he sucks it up.) Damon can't help finding it ironic that he and Elena are heading towards the city that first brought them together so long ago.

So much has changed since then, but one thing remains the same: Elena is still his brother's girl.

(She is still out of reach.)

The girl in question fell asleep a few miles back, muttering something about needing beauty rest. He knows that was just a façade, of course; he saw her looking longingly out the window as they left Mystic Falls, as if she were trying to commit everything to memory in case she never saw it again.

It's an urge he knows only too well.

But he lets her be. He can tell she hasn't been getting much sleep lately – she looks gaunt, and there are dark hollows beneath her eyes – and really, most days, it's futile to fight her. All she has to do is bite her lip, and he's a goner. (She doesn't even do it intentionally.) Besides, she looks so peaceful.

He sighs and shifts his gaze back to the road, hating himself for taking her with him. For the past few hours, he's been debating whether to turn around and drive her home.

He's afraid that this mission will be fruitless at best, and fatal at worst (not to mention heartbreaking). He knows he can handle it – he's dealt with his brother's "slip-ups" before, and he has a thick skin – but he worries this will break her. As usual, he is fiercely protective of her, protective of everything he loves about her: her fire and her pure heart and that slow, dazzling smile.

He can't bear to see her spirit broken.

(He just can't.)

But he knows he won't succeed in convincing her that it's too dangerous for her, and she'll never forgive him if he takes her back against her will. (Somehow she always ends up forgiving him, but he can't take a chance like that this time.)

So instead of thinking about the inevitable horrors ahead, he focuses on the sleeping girl curled up in the seat beside him. It helps that the way she's hunched over gives him a near-perfect view down her shirt; he catches a glimpse of the round, luscious swells of her breasts and stifles a groan. He's convinced the universe brought her to him just to torture him. She's that much of a hellcat, he swears.

He knows she sleeps like this from months of watching her at night (at first he was just being creepy, and then it was because he couldn't breathe for fear of losing her), and, like the sucker he is, he finds the position irresistible (he finds _her_ irresistible, but that's another story entirely).

She sighs a little, that bow-shaped mouth opening slightly, and his breath nearly catches in his throat.

God, all he wants to do is kiss her until she's breathing into him.

He looks away from her, forcing himself to think about something other than the sad reality that he can't have her, in _that _way or any way, really. As much as he loves her, and as much as he wishes she felt the same way (he can still remember the taste of the tears on her lips when she kissed him), that's not what they're here for.

He's not going to take advantage of her vulnerability. He won't be that selfish. Even with Stefan gone – especially with Stefan gone – he won't pursue her.

(He knows she deserves better than that.)

No, he'll just suffer in silence. He'll just catalogue every moan she makes in her sleep and every stretch of her arms above her head, exposing the strip of skin above her jeans that makes his pants tight.

She sighs again, her brow furrowing, and he wonders if she's having a nightmare. He considers taking off her necklace and infusing her dreams with rainbows and butterflies and that ridiculous shit that's guaranteed to make her happy, but he decides against it. He can't mess up with her again.

And she needs to feel this fear. She needs to feel how dangerous this is. If she's ever going to survive the pain of finding Stefan when he's passed the point of no return, she needs to face the terror now.

So he grits his teeth and tries to block out the small whimpers she's letting out, the way she's twisting in her seat like she's trying to get out of the car (even though she doesn't have anywhere to go). He's seen her thrash around like this before, but he finds it more painful now that his brother is the cause of her restlessness.

It's not a feeling he can explain.

She starts to get more agitated, shaking her head this way and that, squeezing her eyes shut, her hands balled into tight fists. He can't tell whether she's crying, but her cheeks are red and she's breathing hard. It's difficult to watch.

He has just decided to wake her up (he can't stand to see her so distraught; it's killing him) when she reaches out blindly with one flailing hand, her fingers diving towards his body like he has something she wants – or needs, but he has never really believed she needs him.

He blinks stupidly. Her hand is just hovering in the air, her arm outstretched in his direction, and her eyes are still closed, her face a mix of anger and sorrow. He thinks he's lucky that he has such good reflexes, because otherwise he'd probably have run the car off the road by now.

She's just so _intoxicating_.

And he knows he shouldn't touch her. He knows he should just yell or something and let her nightmare end that way. He knows that he's not the one she wants comfort from (he's always carried that knowledge with him).

And still, he can't help himself. (He can never help himself when she's hurting.)

He reaches out and clasps her hand with his, lacing his fingers through hers, partly because he's a masochist and it hurts to touch her like this. She grasps his hand fiercely, her grip unyielding, and he wishes she were his for the millionth time since he's met her.

But he doesn't regret reaching for her, because almost immediately, the worry lines marring her forehead disappear. She sighs again, happily. A lump forms in his throat.

He just watches her for a while, holding her hand hesitantly, afraid that she'll wake up and accuse him of taking liberties with her. He thinks idly that she's most beautiful like this, with her hair mussed and her mouth peaceful. She looks like she's just been ravished; she looks free.

He didn't think it was possible to want her more than he does. But the sight of her all lazy and sleepy sends blood to all the wrong places.

Once her breathing has evened out and her rocketing pulse has steadied somewhat, he attempts to slip his hand out of hers. He's too close to her; he knows that if she wakes up to find them entwined like this, it'll remind her of the night when he almost died. She'll probably go off on one of her guilt-ridden rants then.

And seriously, he doesn't have time for that. (Call him harsh or unsympathetic, but it's the truth.)

But she doesn't let him go.

He could forcibly remove his hand from hers, but she's holding onto him like he's her salvation or something crazy like that, and he's never been strong enough to resist her when she pulls him in. His heart rattles awkwardly in his chest when she adjusts herself so that her fingers are laced symmetrically with his. It's almost perfect.

(He doesn't think he wants her to let go.)

So he just sits there and drives, holding her hand and hoping that somehow, they will both survive this.

…

The sun is creeping towards the heavens when Elena lets out a soft mewling sound that Damon knows altogether too well (he's heard it enough times from down the hall, thank you very much). It's a breathy sort of moan that makes her curl her hand tighter around his, and he clenches his jaw. He's suddenly very grateful that he's had years to get his sexual urges under control.

Because he's in severe danger of acting like a teenage boy experiencing his first hard-on.

He releases her hand, wary of her reaction when her eyes open. She lets him go reluctantly, humming under her breath as she awakens to the world.

He waits while she opens her eyes slowly, unbending her body with the kind of delicious groan that sends shivers down his spine.

God, this _girl_.

Embarrassment floods his cheeks (there's no physical evidence, of course, but he can feel it nonetheless), and he shifts his focus to the trees lining the highway. He doesn't think it's a good idea to watch her wake up – it'll only make him wish that he got to wake up next to her every day for however long she'll let him. And _that_ desire will send him down roads he doesn't want to go down.

(Because all he really wants is to make love to her until there's sunlight streaming in through the windows.)

After a moment, the gorgeous girl sighs and murmurs groggily, "How long have I been asleep?"

He chuckles softly, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears – forced, like it requires extra effort (and it does). "A few hours," he tells her haltingly, awkwardly, unable to look at her. "Give or take."

She shifts in her seat. "Where are we?"

He frowns, trying to remember the last sign they passed. He hasn't really been paying attention to the mile markers (he's been too busy watching her to notice much else).

"Somewhere in the south," he deflects vaguely.

She huffs an exasperated sigh. "Well, _obviously_," she hisses, and he has to resist the urge to smile (he was worried that the sacrifice stole this part of her, and he can't express how glad he is that she still has her bitchiness). "A little more clarification would be nice, don't you think?"

He nods slowly, flashing her one of his signature grins. He's not delusional enough to think it has much of an effect on her, but he tries anyways.

"It _would_ be nice," he acknowledges agreeably, "But you've been snoring so loudly that it was almost impossible to pay attention to the scenery."

She scoffs. "At least I don't slurp the blood bags like they're juice boxes," she retorts haughtily, sticking her tongue out at him like he's just stolen her favorite toy in the sandbox.

He grins broadly at her petulance. "That's a good point," he concedes good-naturedly, "But you snore. And I had to listen to that for _hours_ upon _hours_. I think I definitely got the short end of the stick."

(Yeah, because listening to the sound of her breathing is such a chore for him. The bane of his existence, really.)

She scowls, puffing out her lower lip like she does whenever she thinks he's exaggerating (she's usually right). "I don't snore!" She protests hotly, crossing her arms over her chest like a child.

(All that does is push up her breasts even further, and he feels his veins protruding.)

He chuckles indulgently. "No, you don't."

"You're right, I don't, so why did you–" She breaks off to glare at him, her eyes full of derision. "Wait. You _asshole_!"

He laughs. He loves when she finally catches on to his little jokes. It always feels so simple and pure, like if they could just remove all the outside circumstances, they'd be happy. He likes to think that in another world, they were meant to be.

(Just not in this world.)

"And the prize goes to Elena Gilbert!" He declares, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like they're in some kind of gameshow (anything to make her smile). "The girl who can never tell when I'm joking."

She laughs, that silvery, infectious laugh he hasn't heard since…well, since they danced together at the decade dance. He automatically stiffens, reacting to this break in their solemn routine, and he's relieved when she doesn't even notice. She just goes on laughing, reaching over and punching his arm affectionately. Her teeth shine in these endless rays of sunlight, and he wants to kiss her.

"I can always tell when you're joking," she contradicts, shaking her head a little, as if she can't believe she's laughing. "I'm just tired."

He looks at her incredulously out of the corner of his eye (she just slept for _hours_; how is she tired?), and she shrugs helplessly. Mirth is sparkling in her eyes, and he realizes he'll do anything to make sure it stays there. He considers his options: keep the joke running until it's not funny anymore, make another joke, etc.

(Yeah, he's completely whipped for this girl.)

In the easy silence that follows, she props her bare feet up on the dashboard, arching into her seat, a content sigh leaving her. Guilt flits briefly across her face, and he knows it's because she thinks it's wrong to feel even remotely happy after everything that's happened. He also knows that she's been starving for feeling much of anything these days, and she can't resist the small joy now.

His mind feels curiously blank, and he realizes with a shock that he is consciously avoiding thinking about how physically close she is to him right now. He mentally slaps himself for inhaling her sweet, familiar scent; for God's sake, he's been in the _car_ with her before, hasn't he?

Well, that was before he could remember what it feels like to kiss her.

He forces another chuckle, mostly because she's fidgeting restlessly, shaking her head and staring listlessly out the window. As usual, she looks impossibly beautiful. Also as usual, he wants to pull over and kiss her until all she can feel is his hands on her skin.

"Your feet smell," he offers wryly in an attempt to wrench himself away from those kind of damning thoughts (he can't afford to yearn for her any more than he already does), wrinkling his nose like he's actually paying attention to anything besides her blood.

She hugs her knees to her chest, a sudden, impulsive movement he can tell is self-conscious. He wonders if it's only now occurring to her that this road trip means he will see her in ways he's never seen her before; the thought must make her anxious. His mouth goes dry: he's imagining her wearing those pajama shorts he loves so much, her coming out of the shower with nothing but a towel on, her warm weight settled next to him in bed…

He shakes himself free of that train of thought, because he can tell that his flippant comment hits her harder than she wants it to. Her brow furrows, and she hunches in her seat, the enthusiasm suddenly banished from her eyes.

Oh, no. She's receding again, receding because so much is wrong.

"They do not," she says at last, softly, swinging her curtain of hair across her face, shielding her from his sidelong gaze. As with most times she lashes out at him, she so obviously wants to coat the words with venom or even just indignation. But she's probably too busy imagining how awkward it will be when they arrive at the hotel room for the night to muster much bite.

He knows his response needs to be swift and easy. She is so close to breaking, so near the edge. He wishes he could pretend not to care, but he _does_ care.

(He cares more than she'll ever really know or understand.)

"Relax, 'Lena," he says, and he catches her lips twitching at the absence of the first syllable of her name (he thinks it's probably because he doesn't normally sound this affectionate). "Your feet don't smell."

She heaves a wan sigh of relief. She turns to face him, sending him a watery smile that makes him want to fall into her.

He reaches over and fingers her hair, those long, luxurious locks. "You do need a pedicure, though," he says nonchalantly – so casually, in fact, that she giggles. It shouldn't surprise her that he knows what a pedicure is – he's lived far too long not to pick up knowledge like that – but he sees a sort of confusion flicker through her eyes. It's laughter, too, laughter and _life_.

But then she sombers, and he can see her take a step back, take a step back and realize that nothing about this moment is right.

She stares vacantly out the window at the landscape rushing by. He wants to coax a smile out of her, but she won't look at him.

"I haven't had time to get a pedicure since –" She breaks off, tears cracking her voice, rendering her almost unable – even unwilling – to breathe. "Well, since I met Stefan." She smiles ruefully, her lips fighting her all the while. "Isn't that funny?" She tries to keep her voice steady and sure, but she's wavering.

He doesn't say anything. (He doesn't know what to say.)

He doesn't know how he knows that she needs to be held. He doesn't know how he knows that if he touches her, she won't shrink away. He doesn't even know when he decided to be the better man she's always told him he can be.

But right now, all he can feel is pain, pain for _her_. So he simply sighs, the sound heavy in the enclosed space, and pulls over abruptly, turning off the car with a crank that feels final. She blinks in confusion.

She shifts to face him – it's a slow movement that threatens to turn his world on its axis – and she slowly swivels her head. She's afraid of what she'll find, he can tell, but she's also paralyzed by grief. She needs something to make her move again, and he's the only one who can pull her out of this darkness.

(That's always been the case.)

When she finally meets his gaze, heartbreak is steeped in the contours of her face. It's a face he knows well, but still, it hurts.

Her eyes are so sad.

"Elena," he whispers gently, the word brimming with remorse and pain and _love_, love so tangible that he thinks he must have been living a lie for the past 145 years. (Everything about his love for Katherine was a lie.)

She blinks again, trying to stop her tears from covering her cheeks entirely. He winces. She's terrified of being vulnerable with him, even though she has already given him so many of her darkest moments. He knows his tenderness still shocks her sometimes, because it comes from that place she often fears was lost long ago.

He doesn't know how to explain to her that she's changed him, changed him so inexorably that for him, there's no going back. He's a different man now, and it's all because of her.

(All for her, too, but he can't tell her that.)

And now, he thinks, maybe the note of sympathy in his voice rattles her.

She takes a deep breath. He waits. If nothing else, he knows, she needs to talk about whatever is bothering her. She's been holding it inside, fighting and pushing and breaking. It's not healthy, and he's afraid of what it's doing to her.

"I just –" She breaks off again, pearl-like tears shivering on her eyelashes. He aches for her. How can he even begin to explain this incomparable ache?

(It's too much.)

"Everyone I've ever thought of as a parent is dead. Jeremy is seeing his dead ex-girlfriends everywhere he goes, Klaus is still alive, Stefan is doing God knows _what_, and I can't –" She bites her lip, terror flashing through her eyes.

He reaches across the seat and cups her cheek in his hand, his fingers tucking her hair behind her ear. His eyes trace the moisture coating her eyelashes.

She shakes her head, and he's quiet. He has no idea what to say when he touches her like this (more to the point, when she _lets_ him touch her like this.) It's cliché, but he is both so close and so far away from her, and he doesn't know what to do.

She closes her eyes. "I don't think I can do this."

He sweeps her eyelashes with one cool finger, and she looks at him. He greets her with a warm smile.

"You can do this," he murmurs, his resolve shining through his eyes, he hopes. "If you are half the woman who told the most dangerous vampire in the world to go to hell, you can do this. I _know_ you can do this."

She nods tearfully, the smallest of smiles brightening her face. Somehow, it seems that was all she needed to hear.

And then, without hesitation, she jumps out of her seat and into his waiting arms.

He catches her (as always), even if she loves his brother.

"For now," he whispers, kissing her hair, "It's just you and me."

She nods. "Just you and me," she repeats happily, burrowing into him.

He can't deny that he likes the sound of that.

…

By the time they make it to a seedy motel room in Atlanta, Elena's eyes are swollen from crying. He can practically feel the shame radiating from her, but he doesn't think anything he says will help.

Because no matter how many times he's tried to convince her that it's okay to feel weak once in a while (or all the time, considering everything she's been through), she remains certain that it's her duty to be strong in the face of countless trials and tribulations. It's both her crowning glory and her downfall, and he loves her all the more for it.

He actually pays for their room as opposed to compelling the woman at the counter, which he knows surprises Elena. He only does it because Stefan is surely leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake; he doesn't need to add to that.

Not to mention that it would feel _wrong_. (He doesn't want to think about what a pussy he's become.)

Elena looks at him strangely when he carries her suitcases up the six flights of stairs to their room, which he doesn't quite understand. Southern hospitality is part of him. But the look she's giving him is brimming with emotions he's never learned the name for.

(Why is she so damn confusing?)

She heaves a wary sigh the moment she sees that the room contains only one bed. He could laugh (or cry, depending on how she reacts), because this is playing out just like every teen movie she's ever made him watch. He can even see the title now: Road Trip Romance. In the world of Hollywood, she'd fall in love with him in the end.

But this isn't Hollywood (this may even be Hell), and she's in love with his brother. That's the way this story begins, and it's certainly the way it ends.

"Looks like I'll be taking the floor," he offers lightly, busying himself with checking the outlets and the shower and stupid, mundane things like that. He's trying to subtly give her an out.

And, of course, she's stubborn and doesn't take it.

"No, that won't be necessary," she contradicts him steadily.

He cocks his head incredulously. He absolutely _adores_ how utterly indifferent she sounds. He's turned away from her, pulling down the blinds on the windows, but he knows her face is blank and composed (he's memorized every variation of her expression). It's hysterical, and almost admirable, because this is a situation that he knows neither of them is capable of being indifferent about. They'll be sharing the same bed.

Again.

Yeah, that's not exactly something they can brush under the rug.

He turns around after a beat of silence, fixing her with the kind of intent gaze he can feel her drink in. Her eyes are unfathomable, mysterious, but he catches the slight shake of her shoulders. It dawns on him that she's nervous.

Interesting.

He's about to peel off his shirt in an effort to make her cheeks burn (he loves that pink color more than almost anything else) when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket.

He frowns. Everyone at home (he wonders when he began thinking of Mystic Falls as home) knows better than to make contact with him; it would be too easy for Klaus to track them if they were constantly sending messages back and forth. So he has no idea who's calling him. Which obviously isn't a good thing.

Elena immediately stands up, interpreting his expression as a sign that something is wrong (and, unfortunately, it might be). "What is it?" She hisses, coming closer as he holds his phone up to his ear.

But to his relief, it's just Katherine on the phone. (He never thought he'd use the words _relief_ and _Katherine_ in the same sentence, but so much has changed since 1864.)

"Hey, lover," she murmurs, her voice like sinful velvet even through thousands of miles of phone lines (she's somewhere in Europe and has been since she gave him Klaus' blood). He hates how much she sounds like Elena, and especially that normally she uses that endearment for his missing brother. "I have some news for you, Damon. Would you like to hear?"

He resists the urge to scoff in disgust. Even a purring Katherine is better than nothing. She might have information he can use. And honestly, his knowledge of Klaus is limited; he has no idea what the oldest and most powerful vampire in the world wants with his baby brother.

So he rolls his eyes and grits out, "What do you want, Katherine?"

Elena raises her eyebrows, a question swimming in her eyes. She looks a little threatened, maybe even a little jealous, which he finds endearing. He gives her the most nonchalant shrug he can muster, thinking all the while that what he feels for her is a maelstrom compared to the soft rain he felt for Katherine.

Katherine sighs dramatically. "Don't act like you haven't missed me," she pouts, and he can tell she's smiling that feline smile that used to make his pulse race (all it does now is make him look around for Elena). "But anyways. Stefan might be in Alabama."

Damon nearly drops the phone. "Alabama? Why Alabama, of all places?"

Katherine chuckles throatily, and he marvels at how much less warmth there is in the sound than in Elena's full-body laughter. "How the hell should _I_ know?" She asks snottily; he can almost see her thrusting her nose higher into the air. "For God's sake, Damon, don't mistake me for someone who cares. I just heard some information and thought I should pass it along. Check Birmingham first."

Damon's about to ask her who told her where Stefan might be, but she hangs up the phone before he can. He's left with the beep of the ring tone in his ear, an endless reminder that neither one of the Petrova doppelgangers wants anything to do with him.

Wonderful.

Elena approaches him so quickly, it feels like she uses vampire speed. "What did she say?" She asks forcefully, tugging Damon's face down to hers like she's going to kiss him (but he knows better). "Damon, what did she _say_?"

He can only stare down at her blankly, wondering when it became so easy for her to paralyze him with just one touch. (Seriously, her chest is too goddamn _close_ to him.)

"She said," he begins, carefully extracting himself from her admittedly toxic grip, "That Stefan could be in Alabama."

Elena stutters backwards, her hand flying to her heart. He knows that her surprise is due to the fact that although they left Mystic Falls yesterday, they already have a substantial lead on where the love of her life (he's not naïve about love anymore) might be.

"Alabama?" She echoes. She sounds almost…haunted.

He nods tiredly.

"Well, okay then," she says briskly, trying valiantly to pretend that they know what they're doing here, her recovery swift. "We'll go to Alabama."

(He thinks he hates her.)

…

Bedtime is not nearly as awkward as he expects it to be. He's not dumb enough to think it's because she's actually comfortable around him, but he realizes later that he's certainly dumb enough to believe that maybe at some point, she'll want to talk about the kiss.

But of course, she doesn't bring it up. She simply murmurs a quiet, "Goodnight, Damon," rolls over on her side, and settles into easy breathing.

He stares at her back and wishes he didn't feel this way about her.

…

She wakes him in the middle of the night with the question he never imagined she'd ask:

"Did you mean it?"

He yawns, acutely aware of the curve of her wondrous body only inches from his. "Did I mean what?" He honestly doesn't know what she's talking about.

She sighs in exasperation, and he knows without having to look that she's puffed out her lower lip. He thinks he would find it cute if he weren't suddenly so sure where this conversation is going (i.e. a place he really doesn't want it to go).

She doesn't say anything for a long moment, and he can't help but smirk; maybe she's lost whatever courage she has left.

But he's not that lucky.

She shakes her head ferociously, biting out the words like they physically pain her (and maybe they do): "What you said when we thought you were dying." She takes a breath, obviously hoping he'll jump in and save her from having to spell it out (but he much prefers watching her squirm). "Did you mean it?"

He blinks. "_What_?"

He really hopes she's not seriously asking him this. He can't believe she could ever think that he didn't mean it.

This cannot be happening.

But:

"Did you mean it?" She asks again, timidly, tucking that luscious hair behind her ears. She is unmistakably, undeniably nervous.

He just rolls over on his side and stares at her hotly. It's almost funny that she even has to ask this.

And he doesn't really think about what he's doing. He doesn't even register that he's picked her out of bed and sped her over to the wall, not until she lets out a surprised yelp that makes his toes curl unexpectedly. He doesn't realize that fear, and something divinely like lust, has colored her eyes, at least not until she stares straight at him, a challenge burning in those brown orbs.

"Of _course_ I meant it," he snarls, backing her up until she has to brace her hands on the wall behind her. "I meant it, Elena. Never forget that I meant it."

(And God, did he mean it.)

In another time, in another place, he'd be making love to her right now. But right here, right now, all that exists is him and her and the cracks in their facades.

She breathes shallowly, hard, quick exhales that he can tell make her legs give out. His arm goes swiftly around her, holding her up. She doesn't look away, holding his gaze, and he wonders if she's given up on fighting him, or if she's simply not strong enough to resist the pull between them.

Regardless, he knows he doesn't have the strength to forget that he needs her.

He can almost see the wheels turning in her head; he knows she's hoping he'll just leave it at that. She's probably hoping that it's enough that she's at least acknowledging what happened. She's probably even convinced that he'll stop gazing at her longingly (he doesn't know any other way to look at her) if she can just articulate that she _understands_. That maybe, she can still salvage this.

But he can't let her walk away from this. Not now. Not when his brother is off on a murderous rampage and the wrong kind of blood flows through his veins.

Not now.

So he presses her further into the wall, his fingers curling on the pliant skin just below the hem of her shirt. A soft, breathy moan erupts from her throat, and she arches into him so quickly, so suddenly, that he can only make incoherent sounds. He drops his head on her shoulder, just breathing her in. He doesn't want to push her (he has never wanted to push her), but she is so _close_.

"You might want to pretend it never happened," he whispers into her neck, almost aching to reach out and taste her. He can hear the acceleration in her heartbeat, and it's gratifying that he can tell it has nothing to do with fear.

She gives a tiny nod, those pretty hands hovering on his back, tracing soothing, involuntary circles on his trademark black shirt. He almost groans at the contact.

(Why does she _do_ this to him?)

"I sort of do," she confesses, and a part of him wants to cry.

But he just shakes his head slowly, kissing her collarbone. He wants to feel her relax beneath his lips, as if even the most intimate of touches does not scare her. But she smoothly leans her body away, her message clear: she can't and she won't.

"But I can't," he breathes anyways, and he's so doomed that his voice breaks. "I just can't."

She sighs heavily, her chest heaving, almost pushing him backwards. He knows she's thinking of Stefan.

He knows that she loves Stefan. He truly does understand that in the battle for her heart, his brother will always win. But he can't stop himself from believing that she feels something for him, too.

Because he knows she has ruined the entire female sex for him, and despite everything he has done (despite the cruel killer he has been), he simply cannot accept that the universe would allow a love like his to last forever unreciprocated. He has never really believed in God, but he cannot fathom that he can spend eternity loving someone who will never love him back. It is just not possible.

And still, he is able to recognize that he must wait. He must wait for her; he must be the better man for her. He knows he can do it.

(He can do anything for her.)

So he steps away from her, smoothing her hair off her face, and offers her a soft smile (he can't smirk at her, not when she looks so tragic). He tries to put her at ease by keeping a carefully calculated distance between them, even as she shakes and trembles, her hands hovering in the space he occupied only a moment ago. She looks positively blindsided.

"It's okay," he says, and he means it, and that's almost scary (he can't believe how much he's willing to endure for her). "We don't have to talk about it."

Indecision flickers across her flawless face, and she worries her bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes agonized. She looks like she wants to talk about it very badly, but he refuses to say anything.

Her mouth opens and closes in a silent cry, and finally, she nods. "Okay. We don't have to talk about it."

And so they don't.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Friday.<strong>


	3. How Fickle My Heart

**A/N: Thank you all SO MUCH! Seriously, reading your reviews makes me extraordinarily happy :) **** Okay, now for some bookkeeping stuff: Stefan will be dealt with perfunctorily, and only in the sense of how his journey affects the Damon/Elena arc; I won't be touching the Jeremy seeing ghosts storyline. This will be all about Damon and Elena coming to terms with what happened between them and what it means for their future, both individually and together.**

**A couple other things: I'll be following real time with the timeline since TVD time is so messed up, so two seasons have been two years in this story; and the 1922 murderous rampage mentioned in this chapter is completely separate from Stefan's 1917 massacre, which Klaus brings up in the season finale. Just thought I'd clarify.**

**So now, without further ado, I give you the next chapter!**

**Thanks to Mountain-Woman, for being patient and kind and a fabulous beta. Chapter title from "Awake My Soul." Thanks for reading, enjoy and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_I know you have felt much more love than you've shown.  
><em>_- "Thistle & Weeds" by Mumford & Sons_

Elena spends the next morning in confusing, wrenching indecision. It's a little under three hours from Atlanta to Birmingham, and she spends every moment of the ride cursing herself.

She knows it's not fair of her to avoid talking about what happened between her and Damon. But she's just not ready to broach the subject. She can argue all she wants that this is neither the time nor the place to have this conversation (it's probably a moot point due to the miles of road ahead of them), but the truth of the matter is, she doesn't know what she would say if they talked about it.

(She doesn't know why she did it.)

They're speeding down I-20 W, the hot, humid air blowing in their faces. As hot as Mystic Falls is, the deep South is a whole 'nother beast – temperatures in the high 90s every day, and no water anywhere in sight – and she's not quite ready for it. She supposes, though, that the beautiful scenery rolling by is well worth the scorching heat: long, elegant trees and fields of corn and blue, blue sky.

Somehow, the sight of all that color makes her hope just a little bit.

Atlanta was a dead end, but it's not like she expected anything less. (It would be a cruel twist of fate if they found Stefan in _their_ city.) Maybe, just maybe, Birmingham will be different.

But they've only been on the road for two days at most, and she doesn't really believe they'll be home before Christmas. That's a six-month trip, but she knows too much about the supernatural to believe in the happy ending, the ending where loose ends are tied up almost too easily and everyone smiles widely.

No, she doesn't believe in happy endings. Not anymore.

That belief is confirmed when she shifts slightly and catches a glimpse of Damon's jaw, clenched and severe and, unfortunately, very, very sexy. He looks uncomfortable, and she wonders if he's reliving the moment when he backed her up against the wall and practically begged her to talk about the kiss they shared. She declined his request, of course. That conversation could not end well.

But she thinks maybe she made a mistake, because she _does_ want to talk about it. She wants to think about it, to explain herself, to find out his opinion. She wants to know why it happened.

So instead of thinking about what she'll say to Stefan if they do find him (she has no idea how they'll manage to put him through detox), she stares out the window and prepares the most important speech of her life.

It's an over-exaggeration, of course. But somehow, fixing her fractured relationship with Damon feels like the only thing that matters right now.

…

"I don't know why I did it," she announces suddenly, without warning and without hesitation. They've just passed a sign that proclaims they're 60 miles from the city she always thought was Alabama's capitol.

He sighs heavily, like he expected this. "Did what, Elena?" He asks tiredly, like he honestly doesn't know what she's talking about. She would think he was testing her, forcing her to confront what happened for herself, except that he sounds so exhausted.

(He sounds like he's given up.)

She never really thinks about the effort he puts forth every day to hide how he feels about her. It never occurs to her that he puts on a brave face for her; he doesn't antagonize her, doesn't try to sway her in his direction, doesn't taint her image of Stefan, doesn't remind her constantly that he's perfectly willing to die for her. It's easy to forget that he yearns for her, yearns for her like she sometimes yearns for the human he must have been, when he was innocent and pure and _sweet_.

But then, she thinks that the man he used to be is nothing to yearn for, not when the man he is now stares at her with more love than she ever had a right to deserve.

(Not when a part of her wants to reciprocate that love more than anything.)

"Kissed you," she says haltingly, unable to look at him. She's well aware her cheeks are flooded with color, but she perseveres. The least she can do is be honest with him. They've always told each other the truth, and she doesn't want to compromise that.

(Even if her mouth has gone dry and her palms are sweating.)

She casts a quick glance in his direction, hoping against all sanity that he is open and vulnerable (like he was that night). But his hands are tight on the steering wheel; she can see the tension rippling through his body. She hates herself for making him hurt like this.

(She hates herself for not being able to give him what she knows he needs.)

A guttural moan erupts from his throat, and she feels tears rise and fight her, fight her because a part of her knows it was never always Stefan. The way she loves Stefan is simple and easy, like breathing. How she feels about Damon is so much more complicated – crazy and passionate and like getting stabbed over and over again and _liking _it, liking it and hating if he does it to anyone else.

And he tries so hard to make things easy for her, to avoid whatever tangled mess there is between them. But she pushes him away, because the harder he tries to forget how much he cares, the more she realizes that she can't quite forget. And that scares her.

But she can't push him away this time, because she knows they'll have to talk about their kiss eventually. (No matter how difficult it is.)

"You said you didn't want to talk about it," he murmurs at last. The words are deliberately casual, but she hears the note of strain in his voice. He's trying to get them off this topic, push them towards safe things like the quest for Stefan and Caroline's never-ending boy problems. She has no desire to run away, though. Not today.

(Maybe not ever again, if she's being honest with herself.)

She crosses her arms obstinately. "I changed my mind."

He shakes his head angrily. She knows exactly why he's so pissed off at her; she can't refuse his attempts to start a conversation one night and then push him to talk the next morning. She knows she messed up, but she just can't stop herself now.

"Well, I can tell you why you did it," he grits out. He won't look at her, but she wants him to; she needs him to.

All she wants to do is touch his arm and _look_ at him. She wants to look into his eyes, to hold his gaze and show him that she doesn't understand her own heart. She can't tell him that, and she certainly can't convey the sentiment in her voice. But if he would only look at her, he'd see.

He doesn't look at her, though. He just keeps driving, taking them further and further away from anything certain.

She huffs an exasperated sigh, barely resisting the urge to slap him and scream a few swear words. Why must he always make things so _difficult_ for her?

(Probably because she can't give him what he wants.)

"Then tell me why I did it," she dares him, the words full of fire.

He shakes his head again, a feral growl ripping past his lips. She should feel scared or apprehensive (she's alone in a car with a previously sadistic vampire), but she's just exhilarated. Fighting with him always makes her feel alive, alive and _bright_. She wants to burn for him, burn and light up and sparkle. It's an irrational desire, and one she can't give into. But the desire exists nonetheless.

Finally, he shoots her a fervent look, a glance so intense she feels the heat of it on the side of her face like a brand. "I was dying," he says quietly, fiercely. He says it like it's the only explanation possible, and she thinks that maybe it is.

Because it makes sense. She thought it was the last time she'd ever see him. People do all kinds of crazy things when death comes calling.

But she knows that that's not what kissing him was about for her. (It was light and hope and the realization that in another world, she would have been his.)

And besides, she knows exactly what he's doing. He's trying to give her an out, like he always does. He knows how hard it is for her to be torn between two brothers like this, so he tries to lessen her burden. It's among the most selfless things he does for her on a regular basis, and every time he does it, another piece of her heart falls victim to the gray area, the part of her that is inexorably undecided.

(The part of her that wishes she could just love him, yet won't quite give in.)

And the thing is, she doesn't _want _to take the out he's offering. She wants to talk about the kiss. Only then can she make sense of the mess of emotions swirling around in her head.

So she turns to face him, bravely studying his profile, absorbing the pristine line of his jaw and the curve of his cheek. She catches a glimpse of his ice blue eyes, and God, it's not _enough_.

"I didn't kiss you because you were dying," she explains matter-of-factly.

Damon doesn't have to raise an eyebrow for Elena to sense his incredulity; she can feel the wave of skepticism he's sending in her direction. (She can always feel him.)

"Well, it wasn't _only_ because you were dying," she clarifies hastily.

He scoffs, a hard, cold sound. "Oh, so you did it out of pity?" He questions her caustically. "That's _so_ much better, Elena."

She flinches. The words, dripping with sarcasm, wound her. Usually his sarcasm is meant to put her at ease, but not this kind. This sarcasm is meant to pierce the thin protective casing around her heart, and it works so well that she has to suck in a breath just to keep herself lucid.

But she steels herself for a lot more comments that are specifically designed to break her (he knows all her weaknesses), because she deserves them. She's been stringing him along in some sense or another for a long time; he has every right to disparage and fight her. She's hurt him enough, shattered him into pieces only she can put back together.

(But she's not brave enough to fix him.)

So she holds her ground, watching the minute changes in his expression. "It had _nothing_ to do with pity," she emphasizes, leaving no room for discussion. "Nothing."

And it _didn't_ have anything to do with pity. She didn't lie there in his bed and think to herself that since he was dying, she might as well kiss him, might as well give him what he'd longed for as long as he'd known her. No, she can't give herself that much credit. She wasn't being a kind, decent or even sympathetic person in that moment of clarity. She was just acting on impulse.

An impulse she might not regret, in the end.

He blinks, and she relaxes a little, satisfaction seeping into her eyes. She thinks she might have actually gotten through to him this time. Somehow, that is indescribably important to her.

"Then why did you do it?" He asks carefully, still turned away from her. He is so guarded that something in her cracks (she thinks it's probably her heart, but it could be her spirit). _She_ made him this way. She's broken him so many times that he feels like he has to protect himself from her. How could she let that happen? How could she be so cruel?

She bites her lip worriedly. She doesn't think she can ever really undo the damage she's done, but maybe she can lessen the hurt a little. Unfortunately, the only way to do that is to tell him the entire truth. She can't hide from this anymore. She might not know how she feels about him, but she can tell him just that, at least.

"You were so vulnerable, and so honest," she whispers, closing her eyes as she remembers that moment, remembers how she snuggled into him and held his hand, how he apologized and told her he loved her, how his eyes fluttered closed and her world felt inexplicably darker. She remembers thinking how remarkable it was that she hadn't fallen apart when Jenna and John died, but the thought of Damon dying sent her spiraling into a hole she didn't think she could find her way out of. She remembers that she had a moment of startling clarity, when who he was was thrown in stark relief and it was everything she'd ever wanted.

(_He_ was everything she'd ever wanted.)

She doesn't think she'll ever forget how empty she felt when he closed his eyes for what she thought was the last time.

Her voice grows quieter, more reverent. It's a change she only registers because his hunched shoulders start to straighten out in response.

"You were so _good_," she realizes, offering the words to him in barely concealed wonder. It's a statement that would never have made sense when she first met him, and joy floods her heart. "And I just…"

"You just?" He's breathless now, turning to face her, his eyes melting and piercing and holding her. She feels immobile, and she swallows hard several times.

She studies the slope of his eyebrows, the slight stubble shadowing his chin, the flecks of light beaming in his smoldering gaze. She relishes the emotion clutching his face: the affection and the curiosity and, above all else, the hope. It's moments like these that make her wonder what would have happened if she had met him first, if she had felt this undeniable, almost magnetic attraction towards him and been able to act on it.

(It's moments like these that make her wish it had all happened differently.)

He waits, his eyes locked on hers. She should be worried about his neglectful driving, but all she can feel is the question hanging in the air between them.

She feels a single tear slip down her cheek.

"I just had to," she says finally, as breathless as he is, holding his gaze steadily because she owes him the weight of all of it (of _her_). "I just had to kiss you."

There's only silence.

She expects him to push her, to demand to know why she had to kiss him. But he just blinks, his jaw going slack, and turns back to the road. The only sign that he's even heard her is the tentative, small smile lighting up his shadowed features.

She wants to say something, but she can't explain herself further. As much as she's thought about the kiss (and its implications for the future, but that's a conversation for another day), she can't make it make any more sense than that. She had to kiss him.

She just had to.

He was lying there dying, and all she could think was that if he took his last breath without ever feeling her lips on his (willingly, meaningfully, purposely), she would never forgive herself.

And so she kissed him, because in that moment, she was brave enough to be what he needed.

But her relationship with Damon (whatever relationship they have) seems doomed, because he's simply not responding. She completely laid herself bare for him, told him something that hurt to admit because of what it meant, and he's not responding. That spells disaster. More than that, it spells a kind of heartbreak she's not prepared to confront.

She can feel herself start to shake, feel her body start to shut down. This has always been the way she's coped with rejection.

And then, just as she's about to turn away from him and sleep away her misery, he clears his throat.

"Regardless of why you did it," he says softly, and she recognizes the note of wonder in his voice because it's the same wonder that's been in hers this entire conversation, "I'm glad you did."

She smiles.

…

Birmingham is sprawling and pretty, which is a happy surprise. She doesn't travel much – her parents were always completely enamored of Mystic Falls, and since she met Stefan it's been too dangerous to leave – and these glimpses of the wonderful South brighten her, brighten her because it's all just so _new_.

Damon smiles indulgently when she climbs out of the car. She hugs herself, basking in the warm air, tinged with the smell of fried chicken and the feeling of family. Tears spring inexplicably to her eyes.

(She misses her family so much it hurts sometimes.)

As usual, Damon's by her side in an instant, deftly catching her tears as they fall. He doesn't say anything; he just touches her shoulder lightly and lets her wallow in her sorrow for a moment.

She's grateful to him for that, because she never properly mourned the deaths of everyone she loves. Too much was going on, and she had to be strong for Jeremy. So now, sometimes the pain of it all overwhelms her, and she can't breathe.

It's strange, how her memory plays tricks on her. She can go days without thinking about her parents, and then a wave of grief hits her, hard and fast and staggering. She can spend hours believing that the hole carved in her heart by the death of the woman who never asked to take care of her (but loved her all the more for it) has faded completely, and then she catches a glimpse of green eyes that same precise shade, and she knows that she will never truly move on.

But whenever thoughts of everyone she's lost threaten to consume her, Damon holds her, holds her because they both know she needs him to.

After a moment, she feels centered again, and she claps her hands briskly. "Let's get going, shall we?"

Damon releases her immediately, his face blank. He's hiding from her, and she can tell it's a coping mechanism; they have these moments when she gives him all of her, gives him everything she has, and then she just pretends it never happened. She knows it's wrong, but he's always _there_. She can't help taking advantage of him, mostly because she gravitates towards the goodness that radiates from him like a beacon these days.

She can't stop thinking about their conversation in the car, how hopeful he was, how desperately she wanted to be able to tell him that she kissed him because she loved him. She can't stop thinking that she's made so many mistakes with him.

But he just nods brusquely, waving his hand in the general direction of the town. "Over there," he says, his voice devoid of emotion.

She nods slowly. "Katherine said Stefan might be here?" She asks tentatively, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear like she always does when the balance between them is compromised.

(Like she always does when she accidentally pushes him away.)

He strides away from her, sending her an unassuming glance over his shoulder. "Yes," he answers shortly, and it's like she can feel the electricity crackling in the air, feel the conscious avoidance of everything they share (and everything they don't). "This is where Stefan went on a rampage in 1922. Klaus could be trying to make him do it again."

She knows better than to ask him for clarification, but she has no idea what he's talking about. He's mentioned the 1922 incident (and the 1917 migrant village massacre) a couple times, probably assuming Stefan told her all the sordid details. But if Stefan told her about what sounds like a killing spree that would turn her world on its axis, she certainly doesn't remember. She's managed to feign understanding whenever Damon brings it up, but she's not so sure she's fooled him.

Sure enough, Damon suddenly stops walking and turns back to her, suspicion plastering itself across his face.

"Normally you'd have something to say," he ventures, furrowing those dark eyebrows. His voice is almost accusatory, and she trembles. "Normally you'd have an opinion. You'd probably snap at me or make a bad joke or glare at me. But you're just standing there looking lost."

He slithers over to her, his eyes fixed on her lips, as if her mouth can tell him everything he needs to know (she wonders if he's reliving the moment neither of them fully understands). "So why aren't you reacting?" He pushes urgently. "Why aren't you being yourself? Elena, what aren't you telling me?"

He comes closer still, more menacing than he's been in a long time. He stops barely a foot away from her, searching her face for clues. He doesn't seem to notice that she can taste his breath on her lips, or that his hands are aligned almost perfectly with her hips, or that his body is curved towards her like they're about to make love; he's intent on the words he needs her to say.

He's daring her to defy him, she can tell. He _knows_ why she didn't react; of course he knows. He knows Stefan didn't tell her about whatever happened in 1922 (she can't admit that _he_ made it all happen), but he wants her to say it for herself. Maybe he thinks it'll be a step in his direction.

But she immediately chastises herself for that thought. Damon stopped trying to drive a wedge between her and Stefan a long time ago, and she knows that he wouldn't try now. He is much nobler than that; he has no selfish intentions here. He just wants her to be aware of the truth.

(It's something she has always admired him for.)

Still, she won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that her relationship with Stefan isn't as magical as it seems. Giving into him has always felt like surrendering to her attraction to him, and lately it feels vitally important to maintain her fragile control over him.

"I'm really tired," she tries futilely, waving her hands about the air in desperation. It's a stupid excuse, she knows, and it won't fool him, not even for a moment. But it's at least somewhat true, and it's all she has to offer him.

He narrows his eyes, and he can't hide the alarm blooming in his addictive gaze. "He really didn't tell you, did he?" The words throb with wonder, but not the good kind.

He looks away, and she can't help it; suddenly she's frantic, bracing her hands against his chest.

"Tell me what?" She urges, the words screeching. She's ashamed by how shrill her voice has become, but she needs to hear what Stefan did in 1922.

"Shit, Stefan," he swears softly. He's still not looking at her, his eyes far away, and she cringes at the pain in his words. He's not cursing his brother, only the situation, and somehow that surprises her.

She can tell he's remembering something he's never told her about. The blue of his eyes is so pale that it's almost white, the regret in his mouth almost severe. She knows now that there are things about his past (about _Stefan's_ past) that she will never understand.

"Tell me what?" She asks again, quietly this time. She shouldn't push him, but she has to know.

He smiles, bittersweet, pained. He's looking at her now, but he's not really looking at her; he is still so very far away.

"Tell me what?" She repeats angrily, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. She hates him for thinking he can protect her from this; she hates him for making her care so _goddamn_ much. Everything he does for her only makes her angrier.

She starts hitting his chest, wanting him – _needing_ him – to react, to yell at her and grab her hands and snap that she's being a child. She wants his _fire_.

But he just stoically absorbs the blows, his eyes blazing into hers. She can tell that he knows exactly what she's feeling, and God, that's scary.

"Don't protect me!" She bites out fiercely, anger and pain fighting for dominance in her scratchy voice. She can barely see past her blinding hatred right now, but she fights it anyways (fights _him_ anyways), because she has to. "Tell me the goddamn _truth_, Damon!"

But he still doesn't react, so she keeps on hitting him, taking out all her emotions on him – all her fear and her self-loathing and her certainty that all of this (and she does mean all of it, even the things that are out of her control) is her fault. She starts screaming, nonsensical sobs that rip their way out of her throat and leave her raw. He stands and takes all of it, and she just snarls, hitting him over and over again because he's the only one who can ever abide this side of her.

Just as she's running out of steam, Damon grabs her wrists and draws his face closer to hers, his eyes hot and furious.

"You want to know what Stefan did in 1922?" He asks savagely.

She stops thrashing, her heart pounding so rapidly that she worries she might be going into cardiac arrest (irrational, of course, but nothing about her life is rational anymore). She can only nod, trying to ignore the layer of ice coating her heart; she feels suddenly, horribly cold.

"When I found Stefan here," he begins, his voice almost matter-of-fact (she hates him for it), "He didn't even recognize me. There was blood all over his face, pieces of skin dangling from his mouth –"

She flinches, but he doesn't stop.

"I had to pull him off a baby," he continues, disgust flooding his voice. "A _baby_, Elena. He was so far gone that he fought me when I tried to stop him from draining an _infant_. There were piles of bodies, Elena. Bodies with their throats ripped out and their clothes torn and their eyes open, because he hadn't even had the decency to compel them to forget their fear. There was the most sickening smell in the air, the smell that only comes from blood inhumanely spilt. Oh God, the _blood_ –"

He breaks off suddenly, his face twisting into something resembling regret. He makes a strangled sound.

"Oh God, Elena –" He doesn't seem capable of saying anything else, and she has no voice.

She feels like she might throw up. She had inferred that whatever Stefan had done in 1922 was horrible, but this? This is so far beyond the scope of horrible. Everything Damon has told her (and she knows beyond a shadow of doubt that it's all the truth) is _revolting_. This is…

She shakes her head. She can't think about this right now. She'll deal with it later, because she sure as hell can't cope with this when everything else is already falling apart.

So she just nods authoritatively. "We should get going," she commands curtly, refusing to meet Damon's eyes.

She starts to walk past him, but his hand is on her arm, holding her in place. "I'm sorry, Elena," he whispers, sounding so genuinely apologetic that she feels like crying. "I shouldn't have told you like that."

"No," she begins, suddenly feeling very tired. "I needed to know."

He nods slowly. "You know he got over it," he murmurs, and it's not quite meeting her halfway but she's grateful nonetheless. "He changed. He moved on. He met you."

She wants to say: _You met me, too. You changed, too._

But she doesn't.

"Why didn't he tell me?" She asks instead, her voice breaking. She doesn't mean to be so weak; she doesn't want to be such a damsel in distress. But she can't help it. "We're supposed to tell each other everything. Why didn't he tell me?"

"What would you have done if he had told you?" He asks gently.

She falters. "I would have – I would have listened," she says. A note of doubt creeps into her voice unnoticed, and she bites her lip. (The air seems to hum around her, hazy with all the things she's never confronted.)

Damon shakes his head patiently. "You would have pushed him away. Even for someone as forgiving as you –" she blinks, remembering all the times she's forgiven _him_ against her better judgment (not that she regrets it at all) – "I think it would have been too much for you. You might have walked away, and he wouldn't have been able to handle that."

"But I love him!" She protests staunchly, not caring that she's probably hurting Damon irrevocably with her honest platitude. "We could have gotten through it. He should have _told_ me."

(She repeats the words like they matter.)

Damon sighs wearily, running a hand through his messy hair, and the fault line in her chest ripples. "Well, he didn't."

Elena glares at him. "Loving someone means you love every part of them," she argues stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest. "How can it be real love if you don't know who a person really is?"

He sighs again, the sound heavy. (She thinks maybe he's holding back.)

"Stefan on human blood isn't someone you _want_ to know," he explains carefully. "Right now he's unstable. He'll do anything, say anything. He'll hurt anyone, _everyone_ –" he pauses for emphasis, and she shivers – "if it means he can get some human blood. We're going to have to be careful when we find him."

She raises her chin higher, defiantly. She doesn't know how they've managed to get on this topic, but she can tell that he's trying to move them away, steer them clear of something potentially painful. As usual, she is equal parts angry and grateful, and her ire wins out.

"Stefan would never hurt me," she contradicts him haughtily. "I know him. He loves me. He would never –"

"He's not the Stefan you know," Damon snarls harshly, grasping her hands in his tightly. He looms over her, his eyes bright and shining, and she trembles from the heat burning through him (and into her, but she doesn't like thinking about that).

"He's certainly not the Stefan you love," he continues, and she hates the words he's saying but can't stop herself from listening. "Can't you understand why he never wanted you to know about that side of him?"

She shakes her head numbly, her mouth forming a shocked "O." Her mind is screaming _no no no_ over and over again, but she can't make her teeth and her lips and her tongue work together. She just _can't_.

His face suddenly softens, and his grip on her hands loosens slightly. He reaches up and caresses her cheek, looking so worried for her that she feels herself start to shake. He kisses her forehead, a touch that sparks a distant memory.

(God, what is _wrong_ with her?)

"Can't you understand why _I_ didn't want you to know about that side of him?" He whispers delicately, his eyes full of an emotion that breaks her heart.

She gulps, averting her eyes. She should be angry that he's making this argument about him when it's just _not_ _about him_. She should be pissed off that he's selfish enough to spin this in his favor. She should be –

She blinks up at him. She's not angry. She's just not.

Because she _does_ understand. She understands exactly why he wanted to hide all these sordid details about Stefan's past (and present, and future, and maybe forever if they can't get him back in time) from her. He wanted to protect her.

She realizes that he also wanted to make sure that the issues that are between her and Stefan stayed between her and Stefan; he didn't want to influence her in any way. He was holding his distance, respecting her right to choose.

(A part of her loves him for it.)

But she just nods quickly. She doesn't want to talk about this anymore. The Alabama air is suffocating, and she wants to sleep. That's all she wants to do right now – close her eyes and drift away and forget that vampires exist at all.

She expects Damon to give her space, to let her be. When everything she knows about the man she loves has just been challenged, she expects his brother to acknowledge her need to be alone right now.

But he simply presses a finger to the pulse point at the base of her neck and keeps it there, closing his eyes. He's feeling her heartbeat, like he does when she's broken.

He whispers, "I'm sorry, Elena."

She wraps her arms around him because she knows he is.

…

They spend six hours scouring the town for anything that might point them towards Stefan. They search firehouses and theaters and parks; they interrogate random people, comb through newspapers, and even check with the police station. Elena follows Damon as he smells various buildings, avoiding compulsion (they don't need Klaus to know they were here). They get lost in the city she never imagined was so huge and exhaust themselves as they study every street corner, hoping for a glimpse of Stefan's spiky hair.

But night falls, and they have found nothing. No bodies strewn in alleyways, no troubling news reports. No girls with blank stares or hospitals missing blood bags.

There's simply no evidence that Stefan is here, let alone that he was _ever_ here.

Elena doesn't want to believe it, of course. She sinks to her knees in the middle of the sidewalk and lets her tears fall for a moment. Damon doesn't say anything, and for once in the two years since she's known him, she wishes he would just touch her.

She peeks up at him through damp eyelashes; he looks at her steadily.

"We might not ever find Stefan," she breathes, the words dead, somehow.

He doesn't say anything.

"He might never come home," she continues, painful spasms of certainty ripping through her.

He nods.

She cries.

…

They crawl into bed that night drained and unwilling to be with each other. It's not so much that she resents him for being the reason Stefan left with Klaus, or that she feels guilty for kissing him while Stefan was guzzling human blood.

It's more that she's tired, and he's the last person she feels like crying in front of.

But he just strokes her cheek once, his eyes immeasurably sad, and kisses her forehead. His lips are cold. He turns over.

More than anything, she wishes he would leave her alone.

…

Only a few minutes have passed before the ache in her chest throbs uncontrollably. The words are heavy in her heart, and she knows she has to say them.

"I don't regret it," she says quietly, staring at the ceiling instead of at Damon, whose back is facing her. "I just think you should know that I don't regret it."

He doesn't say anything, and she worries that he has already fallen asleep – or, worse, that he is feigning sleep so he doesn't have to acknowledge her words. She bites her lip, wishing she weren't so damn conflicted. If she just understood her feelings, this wouldn't be nearly as complicated. (Not nearly as painful, either, but that's unattainable now.)

But just before she gives up and closes her eyes, she decides to be brave. If nothing else, she needs to be brave for him.

So she slides a hand along the bed and up his back, finding his fingers and touching his cool skin assertively, like she has a right to (even though she doesn't really have a right to do anything to him). His hand is limp, unresponsive in hers, and she deflates.

But then, as if he senses how much this means to her, he squeezes her fingers. Maybe he does it because he knows she means what she said. Maybe he just can't let the moment pass them by. Or maybe, just maybe, he believes in her, believes that somehow, they can fix this.

Either way, he locks his fingers with hers and falls into an easy sleep.

She smiles.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Monday.<strong>


	4. When Your Hope Falls Down

**A/N: I know that many different writers have written many different variations of what happens in this chapter, not to mention that most of those variations are really, really wonderful. But I felt like I had to address this issue here, so I wrote it – oh well, haha. **

**This is longer than normal. In order to do justice to the characters and the situation, it just had to be this long. Hope you don't mind too much!**

**Thank you all SO MUCH for your lovely reviews. They really inspire me :) I especially want to thank everyone who reviews anonymously. I can't PM you, but I want to tell all of you that your reviews mean the world to me. Thank you!**

**Chapter title from "Hold On To What You Believe." Thanks to Mountain-Woman for her unfailing support. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_But you are not alone in this  
><em>_But you are not alone in this  
><em>_And I will tell the night  
><em>_Whisper: "lose your sight"  
><em>_But I can't move the mountains for you.  
><em>_- "Timshel" by Mumford & Sons_

Damon has always loved road trip Elena. She's lighter, bitchier. She flips her hair and gives him sass and generally makes things a lot more difficult than they have to be. Her snobbish behavior probably shouldn't be a good thing, but it is.

Because whenever she's leaning out the window, her hair blowing in the wind, he can almost see the girl she used to be, with the haughty shake of her long locks off her shoulders and the hyperbolic roll of her eyes. He loves her for everything she is now, of course, but he thinks he would have liked the old Elena, too.

(Her fire burned a little brighter back then.)

The road stretches out before them, endless miles that sing with laughter and jokes and poorly concealed affection. Despite how terrible and horrible the purpose of this trip is, there's something cathartic about being cooped up in a car with the love of his life.

They've been on the road for maybe a month now (it's hard to keep track of the days when nothing is certain), and they've settled into a routine. They follow any and all leads during the day, and they let go of all their worries at night. At night, they just talk.

By now, he's told her so much about his past, things he was certain he would keep locked in his heart forever. In return, she's offered up details about herself: why she and Matt broke up (she couldn't pretend to be the same girl he knew before her parents died), how she met Caroline (the blonde stole her toy in the sandbox when they were six), what she misses most about her mother (the smell of camellias in her hair).

They find no traces of Stefan – none at all. What they find, instead, is peace with each other. And somehow, that's enough to tide them over.

Right now they're heading to Savannah. Their leads are few and far between, so it's been a lot of back-and-forth lately; they basically traipse across the country hoping something will come up. After Birmingham they made their way to Portland, where there was a string of vicious animal attacks (it turned out to be werewolves, which Damon found dreadfully ironic). Then they backtracked to Cleveland, and then to San Diego, and to Beloit, and around and around, until by now, they can't count the number of times they've passed through the Appalachian Mountains.

They're going back to Georgia because Bonnie called them and told them she had a feeling Stefan might be there – and who are they to argue with a witch? Besides, it's not like they have anything else to go on.

(Damon's convinced they're never going to find his brother.)

Elena turns to him abruptly, her eyes alight with mischief. He loves that look in her eyes; he makes it his mission to brighten that dear brown at least twice a day.

He shoots her a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye. "What?" He asks, anticipating a vapid question of some sort. She's taken to prodding him for details about all the things he's seen, not that he minds (he's always wanted her to know who he really is).

She smiles. "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?"

(He thinks idly that he loves her for managing to make even the most inane of questions relevant.)

He pretends to ponder her question deeply, stroking his chin. She shoves his arm playfully, an expression of faux hurt drifting over her face; he's inordinately happy that she's comfortable enough around him to shove him and not think twice about it.

She's even comfortable enough to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room. They don't talk about the kiss (not anymore). They don't talk about why she did it, or why she doesn't regret it. They don't talk about the fact that she reached for his hand in bed that night – they make a distinct effort not to talk about _that_, because she still reaches for his hand. They sleep with their hands intertwined every night.

(He doesn't know what it means, so he tries not to think about it.)

They don't talk about any of their issues. He knows it's not healthy (not to mention sometimes he can see the struggle in her eyes), but he doesn't want to push her.

He can feel the expectant weight of her eyes on his face, and he chuckles. "Chocolate chip cookie dough."

She raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. "Cookie dough, huh?" The words are judgmental, which he finds hysterical considering they're talking about _ice cream_.

(But then, he's never pretended to love her for her sensibility.)

"Yes," he says gravely, like it's the most important statement he's ever made (he loves making fun of her). "Cookie dough."

She bites her lip, like she does whenever she's holding something back.

For the sake of both their sanities, he relents to her. "Okay," he says. "Get it all out."

There's a beat of silence, predictably enough, a moment when she tries to pretend she's not bursting at the seams with words she wants so badly to say. And then, off she goes.

"Cookie dough?" She screeches, throwing her hands in the air theatrically. "Of all the ice cream flavors, you choose _cookie dough_? Do you know what a disservice that is to ice cream flavors everywhere? Cookie dough disrupts the purity of vanilla." She crosses her arms over her chest, looking wounded; he has to bite down the urge to laugh. "I would have thought you of all people would appreciate a flavor that has withstood the test of time, not one that is so –" She scoffs, clearly struggling.

"Frivolous?" He offers helpfully, smiling at her. She's cute when she's fiery (even if she's giving a passionate diatribe about _ice_ _cream_).

But she just glares at him, that devilish gleam shining in her eyes. "Commercial," she provides through clenched teeth. She almost spits the word; she's that furious.

He laughs heartily. "I can't believe you're legitimately mad at me because of my favorite _ice cream flavor_," he says, grinning broadly. He loves arguing about stupid things with her; it reminds him that despite the doom and gloom that pervade their lives, they can still brighten each other when it matters most.

She nods vigorously. "Yes," she clarifies. "I'm mad at you about your favorite ice cream flavor. I'm allowed to be mad about that, aren't I?"

She smiles teasingly; he thinks that if they weren't in a car, she'd probably be swaying her hips in a concerted effort to make him squirm. He panics unnecessarily (she's not trying to _seduce_ him, for God's sake).

But he can't help it. She's so goddamn _hot_.

He turns away uncomfortably, unable to look at her when she's manipulating him with her feminine wiles, whether intentionally or not. He can feel her confusion, but he ignores it.

Suddenly, her phone buzzes, the telltale vibration that means _home_, and he thanks God (not that he believes in any of that stuff) for the interruption.

He should probably be worried that Klaus will trace the phone line or something. But they haven't found any signs of him, and he certainly hasn't been trying to find them. Damon just doesn't see the point in denying Elena this connection to her home.

She shoots him one last curious look before snapping open her phone and piping up happily, "Jeremy! How are you?"

She talks animatedly for a long while, her energy pulsing in the small car. The moment of weirdness between them is completely forgotten, brushed under the rug (as most of their disagreements are).

And he sits there, staring at the road before them, and realizes that with every moment that passes, he's falling even more in love with her. And maybe that's dangerous. (In fact, he's sure it'll be his downfall.) But then, his entire life has been fraught with peril. Love certainly isn't any different.

And as he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her mouth open in laughter, he realizes that as cheesy as it may be, he honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

She's worth all the pain.

…

They're 70 miles from Savannah (some place called Waterboro, South Carolina, and he wonders who comes up with all these town names) when he smells something that makes him jerk the steering wheel away from the trees blurring past them.

Elena's jaw slackens, her hand still gripping the phone tightly (she's talking to her best friend now, also known as the vampire he created), and she reaches out to touch his arm.

He cowers away from her. Not because he doesn't want her fingers on his skin, but because he's afraid of what he might do if she gets too close to him. If his nose is picking up what he thinks it's picking up, she's not going to like this one bit.

He lifts his head higher, desperately hoping that he's wrong. He normally likes the smell of blood (obviously), but right now, he wants it gone from his nose. He doesn't _want_ to smell this blood – not this much of it, not like this…

He hears Elena's voice from far away, as if he's submerged in water and she's trying to stop him from drowning (it's a fitting metaphor for her saving him).

"Damon," she's saying, the words frightened, "What's wrong?"

He realizes she must be thinking that it's been a long time since she's seen him this unhinged.

Even though he wants to reassure her that he's not reverting to his sadistic ways, he can't look at her. Not with this much blood hovering in the air. If he sees her pulse thundering at the base of her neck, this will much too be real. And he has to stay as detached as possible if he wants to fix this.

"Damon," she repeats unsteadily; he can hear how hard she's trying to maintain some control. "Tell me what's going on."

"Elena," he grits out, wondering how much longer he can drive, how much further he can get away with her. He knows he needs to go back to where he smelled the blood and figure out what's going on (i.e. what the hell he's going to do about it), but he doesn't want her to see this. He can't subject her to this.

But her hand is on his arm suddenly, the heat of her skin scalding him. He resists the urge to push her away.

"Hang up," he growls (it's the only thing he can think of saying).

"Hold on," she says pleasantly to Caroline, glaring at Damon. "_What_?" It's a downright hiss, and he should care that he's pissed her off, but he doesn't.

(He never cares about her feelings when her life might be in danger.)

"I smell something," he bites out, scanning the horizon rapidly, trying to gauge if there are any vampires in the vicinity. "You need to hang up."

She falls silent, the phone going limp in her hands. He can hear Caroline chattering happily in the background, and something in him breaks.

"I'm sorry, Elena," he says sincerely, "But you need to get off the phone. Try not to sound nervous or worry Caroline. We don't need her coming after us."

Elena shudders, and he wishes more than anything that this kind of scene hadn't become routine in her life. As hard as he tries to make her happy, he can't remove the supernatural from her world, a world that used to be full of pageants and diaries and family dinners. It's there no matter how she feels about it, and he can't get rid of it for her.

At last, Elena nods, resignation dwelling in her sad, sad eyes.

"Caroline," she says sweetly, "I have to go, okay? I'll call you tomorrow, I promise." He can hear the blond vampire giving an affectionate sendoff, complete with kissing noises (he would laugh if the situation weren't so dire). "I love you, too. Yeah, okay. Say hi to Tyler and all of them. Okay, bye."

And then, there is only silence.

Damon is afraid to say anything. He doesn't want to spark Elena's anger – the fire he knows is slowly building in her throat.

But when she speaks after a long moment, her voice is eerily controlled. "Damon," she says thinly, the word tight and thankless. "What did you smell?"

"Blood," he spits out, his gaze flitting instinctively to the forest on either side of them. He feels trapped – something that as a vampire, he doesn't normally feel.

Elena barely manages to stifle a gasp. "Blood?" She repeats dumbly.

"Yes," he says distractedly, anxiously scanning the trees. "And lots of it."

She doesn't break the silence that follows, and he's glad. She must be dying to ask questions (to ask if it was Stefan who spilled all that blood, to ask if Stefan's close by, to ask if everything will be alright), but she keeps her mouth shut. He wants to worship her for it; right now he needs to concentrate, and her silence is really in his best interest.

When he's certain Caroline has truly left the conversation, when he's checked for hitchhikers or anyone who might see their strange maneuver, he pulls the car into a wide U-Turn.

He sees Elena's jaw drop out of the corner of his eye.

"We're going back?" She asks incredulously, clearly not understanding what the hell is going on. "We're going back to where you smelled all that blood?"

He nods. "I have to check it out. It could be…" He can't say it.

She winces, and he can't resist the sudden emotion that wells in his throat, this tangled mix of hope and sorrow and _longing_. He's never been able to resist his feelings (his humanity, he supposes) when it comes to her, and so he reaches over and fingers a lock of her hair.

"Don't worry," he whispers, wondering if he'll ever stop needing her like this (hot and messy and complicated). "I'll keep you safe."

She turns to look at him, the heat of her eyes forcing him to meet her gaze. She holds them both there for a long moment, letting everything else fall away: the rust hovering in the air and the bodies he knows are spread throughout the forest and the possibility that his baby brother did this. He doesn't know how she acquired the ability to make everything just disappear when she looks at him.

"It's not me I'm worried about," she says softly.

"You don't need to worry about me," he chokes out, swallowing thickly.

She peers at him, furrowing her eyebrows like she always does when she's worried. There's something so pristine about the color of her eyes that he has to look away.

They drive the fifteen-minute trip back without looking at each other once.

Finally, he pulls the car off the road, climbing out before she can ask him what he's doing. He starts to walk into the forest, figuring he has a better chance of making sure she stays behind if he just goes.

But she's screaming at him from inside the protective enclave of the car (he's not an idiot; he locked the doors from the inside), hard and angry and tearful, and he has to turn around.

"Wait!" She's yelling, unlocking her door with a finesse he grudgingly admires, clambering out of her seat like she can actually make it over to him before he does something she'll probably never forgive him for. "Don't leave without me! Let me come."

He's by her side in a flash.

"Stay in the car," he commands authoritatively, holding her gaze so she knows he's serious.

She looks at him blankly, fear nestled in the set of her mouth. He realizes his eyes must be cold and angry, but he'd rather hurt her than let her see what he knows is in that forest.

"Damon," she says slowly, covering his hands with hers, presumably because she knows her touch will give him pause. "What –"

He wrenches his hands away from hers, ignoring the way she flinches. "Just please," he growls pleadingly, lowering his forehead to hers because he can't bear the tremble of her lower lip right now (he can't bear any of it). "Please, just stay in the car."

His lips glide across her skin, feeling her still beneath him, her pulse settling down. "Can you do that for me?"

He pulls back, looking at her. She's silent, still, her eyes wide. He thinks maybe she's realized that he's only doing this to protect her.

Finally, she nods. "I'll stay in the car," she promises, and he believes her because they don't lie to each other, not anymore.

His face breaks into a relief he can't hide, and she blinks, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. Her mouth softens, and he's enthralled by the concern flitting through her expression.

"Be safe," she whispers, kissing his cheek. He can tell it's impulsive, thoughtless, but his jaw drops anyways.

He nods, his throat suddenly constricted. He never sees these flashes of affection coming. No matter how many times she holds his hand or tells him she's glad he's here, he never quite believes it.

"Lock your doors," he orders her gently, extricating himself from her hold even though every cell in his body begs him not to. "If you see anyone coming, drive away. I don't care if I'm back yet, you just _drive away_. Do you understand me?"

She hesitates briefly, then nods, her hands sliding down his face to rest on his chest. "I understand," she whispers.

He moves to walk away, the smell of blood almost overpowering now, making it impossible for him to focus on anything but how much he needs to get into that forest.

But her lips are suddenly by his ear – she's stood up to meet him, her body rigid – and she's practically begging him, "Come back. Please just –" She sobs, an agonizing sound that tears into him. "I need you to come back."

He doesn't know how to respond to this (besides the obvious, which would involve her lips and his lips and too many things she's not ready to face), so he just nods again. He touches her cheek tenderly, and then he walks into the forest.

All he can hear is her soft cries. He's not surprised that the sound breaks his heart.

…

Damon has seen a lot of blood in his life. Hell, he's _spilled_ a lot of blood in his life. But none of his murderous escapades have prepared him for the sight that awaits him at the heart of the forest.

He follows his nose as soon as he disappears into the thick swath of trees, tracing the hints of recently spilled blood vibrating in the air. It's easy to count the bodies, considering how distinct the smell of every person's life force is, and the number sends him reeling.

If he wasn't already sure that Stefan did this, the number confirms it. The scope, the brazenness…it all fits.

As he nears the massacre site, his nose starts to flare. He hasn't drained a human in months – he's strictly stuck to blood bags since Andie – and the smell makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust. He staggers backward, shaking his head, and tries to picture Elena in his mind. Usually the thought of her helps center him, bring him back to the man he's striving to be with all his might.

It works the way it usually does: his breathing starts to slow, and his vision clears a little.

But he stumbles across the source of the horrible _smell_ in a clearing, and he is not a vampire anymore, not superhuman at all; he is just a scared, revolted, _broken_ man. And nothing, not even Elena's eyes beaming in his mind, can make this better.

There's blood everywhere he looks. It's splattered across the trees, painting the grass, dyeing the dirt. It's blood taken from necks, from stomachs, from legs, from feet, from –

His eyes fall on a pile of bodies, and he has to force himself not to look away. He's always maintained that he has no regard for humanity, but that's not the truth; he's jealous of humans, jealous of their ability to feel and hope and _love_. Humanity is something he cherishes, and to see it so tainted is sickening.

There are bodies ripped, torn, violated and broken. There are bodies twisted and maimed and severed. It is repulsive and terrible and _devastating_, and he clutches his stomach, afraid he might throw up.

He looks at the young woman thrown to the side of the meadow, her eyes blank, unseeing, her heart ripped out and her arms streaked with her own blood. He wonders numbly what she wanted to be when she grew up. He looks at the child (he estimates three years old, but he's too fragile to really check) perched on the top of the heap, his head severed, his soft baby skin rough and bruised.

Still worse, he's transfixed by the young man with his arms locked protectively around a woman, a petite woman with eyes that would have been beautiful if they hadn't been gouged out.

Damon can't help but think that Elena could so easily be in that woman's place, if he isn't careful.

And then it hits him, harsh and unavoidable and unassailable: his _brother_ did this. His baby brother, the paradigm of truth and goodness, by far the best man he has ever known – he did this. Stefan, who abhors taking human lives and has vowed to spend eternity atoning for his sins, ripped these people to shreds and feasted on them. Klaus finally broke the white knight.

Damon sinks to his knees, an incoherent, guttural cry hurtling out of his throat. He can't feel anything but regret and _pain_; he can't see anything but red.

Memories leap to the surface of his consciousness, and he wants to push them away but he's not strong enough to. He's weakened by this _pain_. He sees bodies strewn across meadows from all of Stefan's violent rampages and Stefan with his face smeared with blood and Stefan with a maniacal grin and Stefan with skin on his mouth and Stefan –

"Stefan!" Damon bellows, pounding the soiled ground with his fists and shaking in agony.

He doesn't expect an answer, but somehow, the silence in the forest aches.

He closes his eyes and succumbs to the darkness.

…

Blue light is seeping in through the trees when Elena finds him.

Her hands are at his throat suddenly (he's too broken to register her approach), fluttering protectively, her hot tears seeping into his shirt. He reaches out blindly behind him and pulls her against him, holding her tightly.

They both cry.

…

He sends her back to the car while he takes care of disposing of the bodies. (She hangs her head and doesn't say anything, which worries him.)

It's mind-numbing, torturous. He doesn't think he can do this.

But he picks up every body, stokes the fire continuously and burns every life, destroying every shred of the man his brother used to be. He clings to the thought of the girl waiting for him on the side of the road, because nothing else could give him the strength to make it through this.

And still, despite her face flashing before his eyes…it _hurts_.

…

When he finally gets back in the car, he closes his eyes and leans his head against the steering wheel. He starts to shake.

She wraps her arms around him and breathes with him, until the sun has set and the sky is dark.

They sit there for a long, long while, giving and taking comfort as naturally as if they've been doing it all their lives.

(And maybe they have.)

…

They've only driven two miles closer to Savannah before Elena bursts out almost unintelligibly, through hysterical sobs, "Pull over, Damon."

He looks at her questioningly, but she just grips his arm, vice-like, and repeats painfully, as if she's on the verge of something she can't face, "Please, Damon, just pull over."

He blinks in confusion but does as she asks. (He'll always do as she asks.)

The car screeches to a stop, and she is out the door, on her knees and throwing up everything in that tiny stomach of hers. He doesn't know how she managed to move so quickly, but there's no lag between the lurch of the engine and the vault of her body.

And then, he hears it: she's crying, too, tears that mingle with her vomit so that he can't smell her blood anymore, only salt and acid.

He's by her side in an instant. He hovers, waiting for a signal that she wants him close to her. He knows she hates being vulnerable, but he cannot stand to watch her like this. It's a piteous sight, and he just wants to hold her.

She doesn't say anything. She just keeps crying and retching, her body convulsing so ferociously that he curses Stefan for all he's worth. Her silken hair is falling about her face, and he can't help the intrusion, he really can't – he kneels down beside her and gathers the long locks in his hands, smoothing them into something resembling a ponytail. It's the best he can do: a makeshift ponytail for this broken girl.

She rasps a "Thank you" but throws up again.

(He thinks he might finally hate his brother.)

He realizes she must have been keeping all this inside while they were driving – while he was crying. She must have been so intent on supporting him while he let it all out that she didn't cope with her own pain. It's so typically selfless of her. But now, it's catching up to her.

Stefan has become the monster he always pretended he wasn't, and the realization is tearing her apart.

She coughs, the sound dry and heartbreaking, and thrusts her head into her hands. She starts to shake, small, thorough vibrations that mean she's headed for a breakdown. She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

He jumps up and unearths a bottle of water from the mountain of sustenance they've got in the car. Just as quickly, he's by her side again, lifting her heavy hair off her neck.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. He can feel her start to break, and he wants so badly just to pull her into his arms and make it all okay.

(But he can't do that.)

He settles for offering her the water and whispering soothingly, "Shh, shh, it's alright."

She gulps the water gratefully, her eyes fixed on the ground. He doesn't know what to say.

She looks up at him at last, and God, does he want to die.

(Or kill Stefan. Whichever would be easiest.)

Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes are rimmed with red, and she's gnawed her bottom lip almost to the point of breaking the skin. All this he expected. Hell, he even expected her to look like she might dissolve into hysterics.

But what he didn't expect is how haunted her eyes are.

Her normally warm, rich orbs are flooded with fear, apprehension, horror, dread, anger, loathing, sorrow, despair, hatred, disgust…he feels like he has fallen into hell. He shivers.

She leans into him, and he tentatively begins to rub her back. She surprises him by not pushing him away. Instead, she gazes at him with an expression he can't decipher.

"It was Stefan, wasn't it," she says quietly, turning her head away from the physical evidence of her pain.

It's not a question, but he wishes it were. He wants so badly to deny that it was his brother who did all these horrible things, to argue that Klaus must have committed those terrible crimes against humanity. But he knows his brother too well, and he knows what his brother can do on human blood _much_ too well.

He can still remember the pungent smell in the air in 1922, when he had to somehow cover up the mass murder of a modern city. He can still see the bodies heaped in piles in the streets, their clothes bloodied, their eyes wide with horror. He can still hear the hiss Stefan let out when he forcibly stopped him from drinking from a baby. He can still remember all that. It sickens him no less than it did then.

And what's worse is that what he saw today was the scene from 1922 replicated. It was exactly the same devastation.

So he nods curtly. "It was Stefan."

Elena nods, tears swimming in her eyes. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, staring off into the distance like the bleak stretch of road holds some sort of relief. "He tortured that girl," she whispers, the words hollow, succinct.

He raises an eyebrow. From the looks of it, Stefan tortured lots of girls.

"She looked like me," she sobs.

He winces. He knows which girl he's talking about. He has no idea how to comfort her; he's completely out of his element on this subject.

"Elena," he begins carefully, wondering when he became the Salvatore brother she could rely on (but he can't enjoy it when it comes at the expense of Stefan). "He's not himself right now. He's hyped up on human blood. He doesn't know what he's doing."

I know," she says, and he thinks she's lying. "I just never thought he could do anything like that. The man who did that is not the man I fell in love with."

He cringes. As much as he wishes her love for his brother would wane, it hurts to see that love tainted like this. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

(This wasn't how any of it was supposed to happen.)

So he fights desperately for his brother, because Stefan deserves that much.

"Elena," he coaxes gently, stroking her hair. "I've done much worse."

Her eyes snap up to meet his, fire burning in the brown he can never get enough of. "No," she says firmly, reaching out and cradling his face in her hands, as if she needs to make sure she gets through to him. "No, you haven't." Her determined gaze dares him to challenge her.

He doesn't. After all, she's right. He has never done anything that even approaches this level of atrocity.

But he has to try to placate her. Stefan really _isn't_ himself right now. The Stefan they both know would never do anything like this. He owes it to his brother to make this right.

"Well," he attempts to hedge, "I've certainly killed a lot more people than Stefan ever –"

"No," she interrupts, her voice scathing. "You've never _tortured _anyone, Damon. You've never torn off pieces of their skin. You've never –"

"I fed on Caroline for months," he points out. He has no idea what the hell he's doing (doesn't he want her to love him, not hate him?), but he knows he has to do it. He can't be selfish, not anymore. She loves Stefan. If she needs to be reminded of that, well then, he'll remind her.

She shoots daggers at him with those expressive eyes of hers. "I'm not going to pretend that's okay," she begins, swiping haphazardly, almost angrily, at her stained mouth (he aches), "Because that will never be okay. But you were broken, Damon. Katherine broke you. You had all this stuff you hadn't worked through. What's Stefan's excuse?"

"Well," he splutters, trying in vain to come up with a reason that will mollify her, "He's been denying his urges for decades. He's never learned how to control –"

"Not good enough," she says stubbornly.

He gapes at her. Normally she's so convinced that Stefan, despite his many flaws, is redeemable. What's changed?

But then…she's changed, he thinks. She's hard and she's damaged and she has no patience for anyone else's problems. She's survived so much and lost so many people that she just wants to be the best she can be; she wants other people to fight to do the same.

"Elena," he tries again, feeling very tired all of a sudden. What's the point of arguing about this with her? Stefan did this. They can try to rationalize it all they want, but at the end of the day, Stefan still killed all those people in the meadow.

As if on cue, her entire body crumples.

He's astonished by just how quickly she breaks. Suddenly she's shaking, wrapping her arms around herself as if she can somehow keep herself together that way. She closes her eyes and pulls her mouth downward, letting out a low cry. She sobs, rocking back and forth in that familiar soothing movement.

He pulls her into him, kisses the top of her head, and lets her cry.

…

She's still crying when they arrive in Savannah. He stops the car and speeds over to the passenger side, opening the door for her, but she doesn't move. She simply sobs harder.

He brushes her hair off her forehead, trying not to disturb her too much. "Darling," he whispers, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise; she doesn't even react (he's not foolish enough to think it means something). "You need to sleep. Will you come to the hotel with me? You can go straight to bed."

He doesn't want to coddle her or treat her like she doesn't have a mind of her own, but he doesn't know how else to get her out of the car. She's almost hysterical; she's scaring him.

She doesn't look at him, instead squeezing her eyes shut tighter, as if that will somehow stem the relentless flow of her tears. But she stretches out her arms willingly.

He picks her up, because he knows she needs someone to hold her right now, and he can be that someone.

She twines her arms around his neck and snuggles her wet face into his collarbone, her hair tickling his shoulders. He's flustered, unsure, but she clings to him like she's never felt safer in her life.

His chest swells with pride and some other emotion that makes him feel slightly dizzy.

(He realizes that this is what it feels like to be the better man.)

He locks the car and carries his prostrate love into the bright lobby of the hotel, looking around for the front desk. He ignores the glances people send him – some curious, some jealous, some worried. He knows what this must look like to the bystanders (he has a sobbing girl in his arms, not to mention that he looks at least five years older than her), but he doesn't care. He has to get her into a bed, and for once, he doesn't mean that in a sexual way at all.

He spots the concierge and strides over to the sleek wood counter, appraising the receptionist with a practiced wave. "Room for two please?" He asks politely.

The dark-haired, green-eyed receptionist (she's pretty, he supposes, but nothing compared to Elena) raises an eyebrow at him, probably because he's cradling a convulsing girl in his arms. She looks uncertain, and he can tell she's debating whether to call security.

He smiles tightly and whispers conspiratorially, "Sorry. She just lost someone, and she really needs some rest."

Elena stiffens in his arms. He knows the sudden rod in her spine is because his statement is somewhat true. She _did_ lose someone.

(She lost the Stefan she knew.)

She hiccups, burying her face in his neck, and he can't resist the urge to comfort her. He murmurs in her ear, "We'll get him back. I promise."

She relaxes slightly, a minute shift that floods his body with relief.

He turns back to the receptionist, narrowing his eyes when he notices that she isn't checking her computer for rooms. It's a futile attempt to make her understand that he doesn't have time to dilly-dally here, but he has to try.

"Look, I'll be happy with whatever you can give me," he coaxes, flashing the receptionist his most charming smile. "Just please, she really needs some rest."

The receptionist bites her lip, but her eyes soften. "Of course," she concedes, at last, turning her attention to her computer and searching for an opening.

He waits impatiently, tapping his foot to the beat of Elena's frantic heart. Her heartbeat is the first thing he notices when he sees her, the only thing he focuses on when she's in danger; it's his assurance that she's still alive, still here.

Still _Elena_.

After a moment, the receptionist hands him a room key and smiles warmly at him. It's the kind of smile he gets whenever he's taking care of Elena. It's the kind of proud, grateful smile no one ever sent his way _until_ Elena. (It's one of the countless things he owes her for.)

He thanks the receptionist (something he would never have done before he met the girl currently locked around him) and then, he carries Elena to their room and sets her gently on the bed.

He carefully removes her hands from his neck, stroking her hair when she whimpers, and pulls the covers up over her prone body. She's still crying, and she still hasn't opened her eyes.

He drags a finger along her damp cheek, sitting down next to her on the bed. "Oh, 'Lena," he breathes. He doesn't know what to say. All he can do, he supposes, is be here with her.

(It's hard because he thinks he might be breaking inside, too.)

He can't even imagine how alone she must feel right now, so he hovers near her. Normally the sight of her in a bed – any bed, although preferably his – does crazy, illegal things to him. But not tonight. Tonight, every part of him hurts. This is what really, truly, irreversibly being in love feels like, he marvels. She cries, he cries. She aches, he aches.

She lies there stock-still, clenching her fists on top of the covers. She's silently shaking, her body threatening to fold in on itself. He sits with her and continues to stroke her cheek.

"You can sleep," he whispers, his lips curving in a vain attempt to smile for her. "I'll be right here."

She's quiet for a long moment, and suddenly, all he can remember is the tug of her lips on his and her short, bittersweet explanation:

_I don't know why I did it_.

(The problem is, he needs to know why.)

Finally, she nods fitfully, slowly stretching out her fingers, wincing as her hands uncurl. He feels placated by the hint of peace in her face, as if the storm has begun to lessen.

He lies down next to her in their normal position: him facing the wall because otherwise it's too much like the night when they both thought he was dying.

The sound of their even breathing fills the air for only the length of a heartbeat – _her_ heartbeat, and he's gratified by the sound – before he hears her quiet, painfully raw voice.

"No."

He turns over on his side. "No?" He's puzzled; it's the first word she's spoken in hours, and it doesn't make any sense.

She doesn't look at him, instead opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling, her arms hanging limply by her sides. "No, don't sleep like that," she explains haltingly, the hint of tears evident in her voice.

He moves closer to her, touching her shoulder tentatively. Her skin has a subtle sheen in the moonlight, fragile and almost too easy to mar. (As always, she is so much more vulnerable than she knows.)

"Elena?" He whispers into the darkness.

"I want you to hold me," she demands suddenly, hotly. The request is loud in the silence.

He blinks. "You –"

"I want you to _hold_ me," she repeats, turning her gaze on him now. Her eyes are full of that determination he cherishes so much.

He blinks again. "But Stefan –"

"Is dead to me," she finishes steadily, returning the heat of his eyes with a fire he can't ignore. (It's the fire he's always wanted directed towards him – the fire of her heart.)

He can't help it; he blinks yet again. "He's dead to you now," he says carefully, watching the play of emotions on her shadowed face. "But he's also not the Stefan you know. I don't think you –"

"_Damon_," she commands, but she doesn't sound angry so much as urgent, and sad.

He hesitates; she doesn't look away.

He thinks about this for a long moment. Although he's been able to hide how much he wants her while they've been on this trip (she knows he loves her, but he thinks she forgets he wants her in the most primal way, too), he doesn't think she'll be able to ignore the tangible evidence of his attraction if she sleeps in his arms tonight. He is still a man, after all.

"Elena," he deflects, inching ever so slightly away from her on the bed, "I really don't think we should –"

"Damon," she says evenly, leveling him with the kind of glare he feels in every crevice of his body (somehow it's a good thing). "Hold me."

He takes a deep, shaky breath. And then, he sighs and does as she asks.

She snuggles into him almost immediately, burying her face in his shoulder. She's still crying, but she tangles her legs with his and twines their hands above the covers. And then, she closes her eyes.

He holds her throughout the night. He doesn't fall asleep. Instead, he simply watches her as she scrunches her eyes and tries to hold it together. Instead, he squeezes her hand as she tries and fails to keep her composure.

Instead, he listens to the sound of her breathing.

…

In the early hours of the morning, she whispers, "We've lost him, haven't we?"

He doesn't have an answer for her, so he just kisses her hair. "I promise we'll try to find him," he murmurs, stroking her cheek. "I promise I'll bring him back to you."

She nods. "I know you'll try," she says, looking up at him with teary eyes. "I trust you. No matter what happens, I trust you."

He closes his eyes and thinks he has never loved her more.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Wednesday or Thursday.<strong>


	5. Stole My Heart and Made Me Sing

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your reviews! I'm glad I didn't depress you too much with the last chapter. A lot of you wanted to see something a bit lighter, so…now we take a break from the angst and go for some good old-fashioned happiness and contentment. Looks like we've reached the halfway point, which is good because we'll really be picking up momentum after this. So consider this a breather of sorts, like when you're on the chain link on a rollercoaster and about to spill over the top…bad metaphor? ;)**

**Anyways, here's the chapter. Title from "The Banjolin Song." SO many thanks to Mountain-Woman, who has done such a fabulous job with this story. Thanks for reading, enjoy and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears  
><em>_And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears  
><em>_Get over your hill and see what you find there,  
><em>_With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.  
><em>_- "After the Storm" by Mumford & Sons_

The tone of their trip changes after they find the mangled bodies in the forest. The sky seems darker, the days longer. Everything's a little more hopeless. Elena in particular finds it difficult to lift the darkness that clings to her thoughts; everywhere she looks she sees Stefan's face, stained with blood and haunted by a feral smile that makes bile rise in her throat.

Damon tries his hardest to cheer her up, of course. He makes really, really horrible jokes, sings loudly – and badly – along with the radio, and regales her with raunchy tales of his days of not giving a fuck about anyone or anything.

And it works sometimes. Sometimes, she can't help the smile that creeps onto her face. Sometimes, she laughs at how crude he's willing to get to make her roll her eyes, chuckles when he affects a fine-tuned British accent and imitates David Beckham (she's never quite gotten over her crush on him), giggles when he puts on his best falsetto and refers to himself as Vampire Barbie. She's always known he was funny, but this trip has taken his humor to an entirely different level.

Unfortunately, though, this trip has also taken her attraction to him to an entirely different level – an entirely different plane, really. By now, she's seen him shirtless more times than she can count, and still, the sight of his sculpted chest glistening with sweat or water never fails to make her pulse skyrocket. She ruthlessly suppresses the urge to curl into him, but it's getting harder. Because his abs are ridiculously defined, and his eyes are just so blue, and she –

"What are you thinking about?" Damon asks suddenly, snapping her out of her reverie.

Elena blinks. She had almost forgotten he was even in the car with her, let alone a foot away from her. "Nothing," she says, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ears and turning her head so he can't see her blush.

Damon chuckles, the kind of rumbling noise that sends her blood rushing south. "You're hot when you're confused."

Her cheeks burn. She doesn't know why she's been so sexually charged lately; maybe it's because she hasn't had sex in months, or maybe it's because the only person she sees on a regular basis is among the most beautiful men on the planet. Either way, she has to ignore her unruly hormones.

Because she needs his levity, not his body or his eyes (not even that sexy smirk). His humor keeps her grounded. Ever since they stumbled across the physical evidence of Stefan's downward spiral, a part of her has given up. She still believes they'll find Stefan eventually, of course (she believes in Damon too much to doubt that), but she no longer has the strength to believe that he'll still be the admirable man he used to be.

Instead, she believes in right here, right now. She believes in driving cross-country with her arms out the window and her hair blowing in the wind. She believes in spending the night in sketchy motel rooms and holding hands when everything else feels too dangerous.

Above all else, she believes in Damon.

…

Late one afternoon, Damon's hand in hers wakes Elena for some reason. After all this time it's familiar, so she's not sure why the touch has registered.

She sits up anyways, squeezing his hand to let him know she's awake. "Where are we?" She asks groggily. The trees rushing by seem familiar, but she has no inkling of even which part of the country they're in (she stopped asking where they were going when it became clear that they rarely had a destination).

Damon chuckles under his breath, that same affectionate sound that never fails to warm all the parts of her that have been cold for months. He smiles, stroking her fingers.

"Norfolk, Virginia," he says nonchalantly.

She sits up quickly, pulling her hands from his in frenzied excitement. She's breathing heavily already, her heart pounding so incessantly that her favorite sort of wry smile graces his face.

"We're two hours from Mystic Falls," she surmises slowly, not daring to hope just yet. Her hands have flown to her chest; her heart is threatening to jump out of her skin.

Tenderness floods his eyes. "Yes, we are."

She sucks in a breath, wishing she could glare at him effectively enough to convey that he better not be playing the worst practical joke _ever_ on her. (Seriously, she might kill him if he's lying to her.)

"Are we –" She breaks off, facing him fully now, her eyes alight, brimming with real joy (instead of the fake happiness they've been forcing for so long). "Are we going home?"

He nods, more tenderness shining through his eyes.

"Don't you dare lie to me," she warns, but she's unable to suppress her mile-wide smile. "Damon Salvatore, you better be telling the truth, or else –"

"Or else?" He jumps in cheekily, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"For how long?" She chokes out, ignoring his interruption. They haven't been back to Mystic Falls since they left two months ago. She misses everyone, everything – Founder's Day and the pictures in her mirror and her teddy bear – so much that it keeps her up at night sometimes.

His face turns serious. "Only for a couple days, at most," he explains somberly, as if he regrets that they can't stay longer (her heart swells). "It might even just be for the day. Just so we can recharge. So you can sleep in your own bed and all that. We'll have to be back on the road soon. We can't afford to waste much time detouring."

She waves him off impatiently, shaking her head. It doesn't matter how long they're going to stay. After all, it's miraculous that they'll be there at all.

She never imagined they'd go back to Mystic Falls so soon, at least not until they found Stefan (not _without _Stefan). She never imagined she'd see everyone before Thanksgiving, let alone before the end of the summer.

It's almost too good to be true.

"Are we really going home?" She asks tearfully, biting her lip.

He grins widely. "Yes," he says, joy emanating from the word. "We're going home."

She starts crying, but they're probably the happiest tears she's ever shed. She squeezes his hand, her eyes wide, shining. And then, without even thinking about it, she launches herself out of her seat and across the car to him, burying her head in his chest.

"Thank you," she breathes. "Thank you _so _much."

He kisses the top of her head, shifting their bodies so that their hands are clasped more comfortably on her hip. He doesn't say anything, but then, she'd rather enjoy the silence with him.

She closes her eyes and decides to let sleep carry her away. She has a couple hours before they get home, and she feels safe and happy in Damon's arms.

She drifts as the miles rush on, carrying them closer and closer to everything they miss so much, and she holds onto him. She holds onto him tightly, because he is her constant. He is the person she depends on for everything, especially the things she's afraid to admit she needs.

His arms curl around her, and not a single part of her wants to push him away.

Instead, she comes closer.

…

They pass the sign that welcomes them into Mystic Falls just as the sun sets, bleeding spectacular oranges and reds into the horizon.

Elena starts crying again. She thinks she's never been so happy to be home.

…

The house is quiet when Elena lets herself in, dropping her keys on the familiar table by the door. Damon walks in without resistance, and she thinks idly about the symbolism (of how immediately she let him into her life, of how now he's here with her constantly, wonderfully).

"Jeremy?" She calls out, unable to hinder her routine, even though she can already tell that he's not home – that no one's home. She's been in enough empty houses over the past couple months to recognize the smell of an abandoned property. There's something different in the air, something stale, stagnant.

Something _lonely_.

She walks slowly through the various rooms, letting her hands trail along the couches, the tables, the picture frames with the faintest layer of dust. Twilight is seeping in through the windows, and she stares numbly at her backyard, the ash trees looming large.

She lingers on the Christmas card from three years ago propped on the dining room table; her mother is smiling, and her father is laughing. They look so young, so young and _happy_. A strange lump forms in her throat, and she swallows hard.

She looks up at Damon, surprised to find moisture coating her eyelashes. "It looks the same," she muses softly, stroking the books propped up in the wooden shelves. "Somehow I thought everything would look different, but it all looks the same."

"We've only been gone a couple months," Damon reminds her gently, approaching her slowly, as if he can sense how fragile she is.

"I know," she concedes. "It just feels like so much has changed."

He doesn't argue with her about that, and she knows it's because she's right. So much _has_ changed since they left. And she doesn't just mean the tangible changes; she doesn't just mean Jeremy and Bonnie working to get rid of Vicki and Anna, and Caroline and Tyler slowly but surely coming together, and Alaric becoming Jeremy's guardian. She's referring to all the changes she can't quite put her finger on: beginning to give up on Stefan, losing who she used to be, and giving in to _him_.

She drinks in the affection in his translucent eyes. "I'm glad you're here," she tells him honestly.

He nods, and she's suddenly so grateful to him for everything he's done that she needs to hold him. He's quicker than she is, though; he's already crossing the room in one stride and pulling her into a hug. She sinks into him easily.

It's one of the moments that get her through the day, the moments that occur so frequently that she doesn't have to think about them. She's memorized the expanse of his upper body, and she doesn't think she'll ever forget the feeling of his head resting on top of hers. It's…comfortable.

He draws back after a moment, smiling. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

She's about to joke that this is a far cry from his days of murder and mayhem, but just as her mouth opens, she hears it:

"SURPRISE!"

She whirls around, shocked by the sound. She's floored by the sight of all her family and friends standing in the doorway with balloons and a cake in their hands: Jeremy with slightly longer hair and Bonnie with her arm curled around his (that will never get any less weird) and Caroline with a huge smile and Alaric with a half-full bottle of whiskey that she's sure will be in Damon's hands before the night's end.

She blinks. What the hell? What's the surprise?

It doesn't take long for Caroline to take charge (it's what she does best, after all). She claps her hands and cries gleefully, "Happy birthday, Elena!"

Elena shakes her head, dumbfounded. It's her birthday?

She thinks about what Caroline just said as her four closest friends wait expectantly. She supposes that the date makes sense, at least. They've been gone maybe two months – that puts them right into the two week vicinity of her eighteenth birthday. But, frankly, she doesn't understand how they managed to arrive in Mystic Falls on the right night, unless –

She turns back to Damon, wonder glowing in her eyes. "How did you –" She gasps, overwhelmed by the inherent compassion in this gesture. "Did you plan this?"

He nods, smiling broadly. Her hand flies to her mouth. Where the hell did this man _come_ from?

She cocks her head, her gaze flitting between her best friends and her brother and the history teacher she's always seen as her uncle. She can't believe she almost turned eighteen without all these people by her side. Damon must have realized that, must have known that this milestone was not meant to be spent in a motel room in some random ghost town.

Her eyes water. He did this for her. For _her_.

She wants to hug him. She wants to hold him close and breathe him in and tell him how much this means to her. She wants to look into his eyes and promise that she'll never forget this. She wants to _touch_ him.

But Bonnie is already saying excitedly, "We made your favorite chocolate chip cookies!" and Jeremy is smiling his endearing smile, and Alaric is hinting wryly, "Maybe she wants some sleep first…" and Caroline is _beaming_, her mouth moving faster than anyone can follow, and it's almost too much, and she thinks that maybe she just wants –

She reaches for Damon's hand without thinking about it. It's become routine by now; whenever she feels uncomfortable or overwhelmed, she reaches for his hand.

But Bonnie immediately stops talking. Caroline's gaze settles on their entwined hands, and Alaric's jaw actually drops. Jeremy's eyes narrow.

Elena almost snatches her hand away. Almost.

But she looks at Damon, and his eyes are the lightest shade of blue she's ever seen, and he's smiling, that same smile she's seen countless times since they left. That smile gives her courage.

So she just squeezes his hand tightly and turns back to her family and friends (or maybe they're all family now), smiling brightly. "Hi!" She greets them, wishing the step she took in their direction wasn't so tentative. "How are you all?"

No one moves; there's only silence. She hasn't felt this awkward in a _long_ time. She knows that the sight of her and Damon holding hands (it's not exactly what it looks like, but she knows it's close enough) must shock the people she loves, but it stings nonetheless.

And then, just as she's begun to lose hope, the four people huddled in her doorway break into wide smiles and rush at her.

When Elena catches sight of Caroline's glistening waves hurtling in her direction, tears well up in her eyes, and she nearly throws herself across the room. She meets her childhood friend halfway and folds her into an embrace that would rattle them both if they hadn't already suffered so much damage. Caroline's arms go tightly around the woman she used to be so jealous of (now, she just loves her more than she can bear), and she sobs into her long hair.

After a long moment, the two old friends break apart, and Caroline whispers tearfully, "God, we've missed you."

Elena sincerely returns the heartfelt sentiment, then reaches out her arms to Bonnie, who's scampering across the foyer at her.

It's a cacophony of laughter and smiles and even a little bit of crying. It's hope and joy and, above all else, _belonging_.

Elena kisses Bonnie's hair and looks over her shoulder at Damon, who Jeremy is very uncharacteristically (or maybe not, considering how much they bonded before she and Damon left to find Stefan) embracing. Damon smiles at her, wide, warm and wonderful.

It's one of those moments she long ago decided were special, one of the moments in her life that _matter_. Despite what she tries to tell herself, he matters.

Sometimes, she thinks he matters more than anything else.

…

20 minutes later, Elena is in her kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for a glass. Bonnie and Caroline are seated at the spotless island (she wonders idly who managed to get Jeremy to clean); she can feel the heat of their eyes on her back. There's curiosity in their gazes (it must have thrown them to see her so in sync with a man who has done so many unspeakable things to her), but also love, and fierce protectiveness.

Elena helps herself to water from the tap and spins around, resting her elbows on the cool marble. Her two best friends stare impassively at her.

She smiles. She recognizes their unassuming gaze. It's the same one she uses when she has something to say but knows she shouldn't say it.

"Okay," she sighs indulgently. "Just say it. Go ahead, get it all out."

Caroline and Bonnie exchange guilty looks. Clearly, this is something they've talked about before.

They turn back to Elena uneasily. "Get what out?" They ask innocently.

Elena laughs incredulously. This is why she loves her friends. They're such bad liars. They're honest people, and it's entertaining when they try to break that ingrained part of their natures.

She leans over and rests her head on her hands, looking from Caroline to Bonnie with the sort of hard stare that never failed to make them confess when they were in middle school, back when she was the Queen Bee and Matt was still the best friend. She taps her foot to the rhythm of the two hearts pulsing in the silence, waiting for one of them to break.

"Well," she says, "Who's it going to be?"

Bonnie remains stony, but Caroline bites her lip. Elena grins. This same scene has played out so many times among the three of them.

Sure enough, the girl who will forever be 17 and beautiful bursts out, "You and _Damon_!" She spits his name like it's something acidic, but Elena knows better; it's the kind of venom she bestows on people she can't help liking despite their many flaws.

Elena blinks slowly. "Me and Damon?" She echoes, pretending not to understand.

Caroline glares at her, the bitchy stare they all perfected once upon a time. "Yes, you and _Damon_," she says caustically. "You guys were –"

"You guys were acting all domestic," Bonnie finishes. "You know, walking hand in hand and telling each other everything you're about to do and generally just being really _nice _to each other." She shakes her head in bewilderment. "It's weird, honestly. When did you guys get so –"

"Close?" Elena ventures, not caring that the idea of her and Damon being close is quite unfavorable to her best friends – almost taboo.

Bonnie narrows her eyes. "Yes, _close_," she repeats, putting emphasis on the word so that it sounds really dirty. "Seriously," she pushes on, sounding genuinely baffled (enough that Elena decides to drop the façade and be honest), "What's going on with you guys?"

Elena sighs, wondering how to describe how the past two months have changed her and Damon's relationship. Not only is it a far too complicated story to relate, but it's also _theirs_. For whatever reason, it feels too private to share.

But she owes her friends the truth, so she grits her teeth and prepares herself for their disapproval.

"We hold hands because he's been there for me ever since we left," she explains, averting her gaze so she can't see the shock in their eyes. "Because he's always there to comfort me whenever we hit a dead end." She shrugs, trying to disguise how grateful she is to him (she's well aware she doesn't fool either of them). "I just got used to it, I guess."

Bonnie raises her eyebrows but doesn't comment or pass judgment (unusual for her, Elena muses pettily). Caroline merely smiles enigmatically.

"We tell each other whenever we're about to do something because things have been dangerous for us," Elena continues, unwilling to elaborate, even though worry lines suddenly materialize in Caroline's smooth forehead. "It just makes sense to always know where each other is. That way help is never too far away."

Her best friends nod slowly. Elena can tell they're studiously resisting the urge to look at each other.

"And we're acting nice to each other because we're all each other has," she says softly, wrapping her arms around herself; it almost feels like Damon's touch, _almost_. She closes her eyes, remembering all the lonely nights when the towns felt vacant and the moon shining didn't feel right.

"He's all I've had for the past couple months," she whispers, imagining that he's right next to her, giving her comfort like he always does, without pity and expecting nothing in return. "We've had to put aside our issues and just work together. So yes, we've become close."

Silence greets her at the end of her honest, heartfelt explanation, and she squirms uncomfortably. She prays she hasn't revealed too much. As much as she wants to confess how conflicted she is, there are some things she cannot talk about with her best friends.

(Damon has always been at the top of that list.)

"I'm sorry," Bonnie says, and it's anguished enough – sincere enough – that Elena opens her eyes. "I just kept thinking about Stefan, and I –"

"I still love Stefan," Elena says steadily. "That hasn't changed."

Caroline looks at her knowingly. "And Damon?"

Elena sucks in a breath, surprised to find a lump in her throat. It's just that Caroline sounds so _gentle_, and this is something she hasn't been able to talk about with anyone. She needs to unload, and thankfully, her friends are willing to listen.

(Slowly, the weight on her chest is beginning to subside.)

"It's complicated," she hedges, debating how to answer this question.

Caroline and Bonnie wait patiently.

Elena shakes her head. "Things have between us have changed," she attempts to explain, her chest suddenly tight. "It's different. I feel –" She breaks off, casting about for a way to articulate what she feels for Damon (she thinks it would help if she actually knew). "Something. I feel something for him."

Guilt must be written across her face, because Bonnie makes a clucking noise of sympathy. Elena gives a discomfited groan.

"I don't know what I feel for him," she admits. "I just know it means something."

Bonnie nods slowly, processing this.

"So why haven't you done anything about it?" She asks delicately after a moment, reaching across the table and covering Elena's hands with hers. "What's holding you back?"

"Stefan is nowhere to be found," Elena says softly, that familiar ache roaring once again (it's this incomparable sense of regret). "That's what we need to concentrate on." She shrugs, pretending that none of this fazes her (but it's all she ever thinks about). "Besides, it's not really fair to him."

Bonnie and Caroline are quiet for a long moment. Elena can't read their expressions despite the fact that she's known them all her life, and that worries her.

Finally, Bonnie squeezes her hand. "Look, 'Lena," she murmurs (Elena can hear Damon saying her name like that, and she feels warm), "As much as I don't trust Damon and as much as it _sucks_ that Stefan's gone…"

"What?" Elena can't help pushing.

Bonnie shoots Caroline a look, a look filled with pretense and underlying meaning – a look Elena can't interpret.

Caroline covers Bonnie and Elena's hands with hers, the cool touch welcoming on Elena's feverish skin.

"And Damon loves you," she says seriously, even more gently than before, her eyes that same shade of light blue Elena has marveled at in Damon.

Elena feels hot tears prick the backs of her eyes. Of course, she knows this. (In some ways, a part of her has always known this.) Damon's said it before (that moment she avoids thinking about), and besides, she's felt it acutely since they left Mystic Falls; it's in everything he does. And still, to hear it spoken aloud is almost more than she can bear.

She makes a small, involuntary whimpering sound. As many times as she's confronted this undeniable truth, she has yet to really accept it.

"I think you owe it to yourself to explore how you feel," Bonnie suggests, the words surprisingly supportive (it's so unlike her to be this tolerant). "As much as it pains me to say –" she smiles wryly, and Elena hiccups through her tears – "There's nothing wrong with loving both Damon and Stefan."

An indignant fire alights in Elena's eyes. "I never said I loved –"

But Bonnie simply gives Elena a look, and Elena immediately shuts up.

Caroline grins. "That's what I thought," she interjects approvingly. "You shouldn't feel guilty about wanting Damon, too. You can't control how you feel, even if you want to."

"I do want to," Elena says softly, looking at her best friends' hands intertwined with hers. They've sat like this countless times before: when Bonnie lost her virginity in a drunken hook-up; when Caroline found out her dad was gay and leaving her mother; when Elena lay in a hospital bed, cold, alone and afraid after the accident that took her parents from her and would inadvertently lead her to Stefan. And now. Now, when they have no idea where Stefan is, when his once-sociopathic brother is winning the fight for Elena's heart with every kiss on her forehead and whispered reassurance.

Now, when nothing is certain.

"I know," Bonnie says sympathetically. "I know you want to fight it."

Caroline strokes Elena's thumbs soothingly. "But maybe you shouldn't fight it," she advises, somehow managing not to sound condescending (it's always been a skill of hers). "Maybe you should just feel what you feel. At the very least, I think you need to let him in."

Elena's eyes widen. Let him in? She's let Damon in – into her house, into her life – time and time again, and all he's ever done is throw her trust away. She's always managed to find a reason to forgive him for his numerous transgressions, and he's always managed to fuck up again.

But Caroline ignores Elena's reaction, continuing, "A part of you loves Damon. It's worth exploring how big that part of your heart is."

Elena nods dejectedly. She knows the blonde vampire is right.

The three childhood friends sit in silence for a long moment, lost in their own thoughts.

And then, as if following some predetermined script, Caroline and Bonnie release Elena's hands, walk around to where she's standing, and gather her in their arms.

Elena leans into them. She doesn't think she realized how confused she was until they pointed it out to her.

(She doesn't think she let herself miss them until now.)

"We love you," Bonnie says, resting her head on Elena's shoulder.

"No matter what happens," Caroline breathes, kissing Elena's damp, warm cheek, "We're going to keep on loving you. Okay?"

Elena nods, choking back a fresh torrent of tears.

She holds tight to her best friends, holds tight to the knowledge that even if all else fails, she'll still have them.

(She'll always have them.)

…

When Elena emerges from the kitchen at last, she can tell by the worry flooding Damon's eyes that her face is swollen and unlovely.

(It doesn't escape her that his is the first gaze she finds.)

He immediately strides over to her, drinking her in like she is some kind of rare flower (she feels desired and appreciated and _special_). Suddenly his hand is on her elbow, guiding her into the empty family room, and she doesn't have time to protest.

She should be angry that he assumes she wants to talk to him right now. She should be angry that he's pulling her away from the people she hasn't seen in _months_ (especially considering she spends all her time with him). She should be angry that he thinks he can make her feel better.

But she's not angry. Because he's looking at her with the expression that's hers and hers alone, the expression that says everything she needs to know about his feelings for her (the expression that says he loves her).

"Are you okay?" He asks with concern, cupping her cheek in his hand.

She leans into his palm, letting her eyes flutter closed. "Yes," she whispers, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around him. She rests her head on his strong chest and sighs in contentment.

"I am now."

…

It's past midnight by the time Elena can bring herself to go to bed. (She wants to stay awake as long as she can and just _be_ with everyone she's missed so much.)

She trudges up the stairs that should be familiar (it hurts that they're not, not really), Damon following her closely in case she sags. She would accuse him of babying her, but she feels exhaustion coming on.

She passes Jeremy on her way to her bedroom; he kisses her on the forehead and whispers, "Glad you're home, sis." She's too tired to reply, so she just smiles and squeezes his shoulder.

Her brother doesn't even blink when Damon follows her through her door. She's glad; she doesn't want to argue with him about something (some_one_) she knows she needs.

She's dead on her feet as she walks into the room she's slept in for most of her life, and Damon carefully steadies her, saying nothing at all.

She changes quickly, turned away from him, as is their custom. These days, she doesn't feel self-conscious around him, not even when she's in her tiniest sleep shorts and her flimsiest tank tops. But it's smart to maintain some semblance of boundaries between them; otherwise she'd probably throw caution to the wind and give in (to everything). It's just better this way.

She crawls into bed at last, and he follows, pulling her into him with the kind of tenderness that she feels in that ever-expanding corner of her heart.

For once, she falls asleep easily. For once, she doesn't see Stefan's face flashing before her eyes. For once, she curls deeper into Damon and doesn't think twice about it.

(After all, she loves him most at this time of night.)

…

There's a moment when they wake up the next morning when it is all so very obvious: he is hers and she is his and only they exist. (It helps that their hands are clasped over her heart.)

But then she unwittingly nestles her body into his, and he lets out a low groan that makes her acutely aware of his arousal. He's pressed into her, and she can't breathe.

She immediately scoots away from him on the bed, shocked. Her cheeks are burning.

He lazily smiles at her, his hair falling over his forehead in a tangled, careless mess that she wants to fix. "What," he drawls, sitting up slowly and fully exposing his pale, glorious chest, "You've never seen morning wood before?"

She's about to snap that of _course_ she's seen morning wood before, when her eyes inadvertently drop down and she actually _sees_ his morning wood.

She turns away, ashamed. She can't believe she's so hot under the collar. This is not right. In fact, this is really, really wrong.

Even so…she can't help wondering how the hell she hasn't noticed this before. She's slept with him – not in _that_ way, of course (although she's certainly thought about it before) – every night for the past month. He must have had morning wood at least once in that span, right?

More than that, though, she wonders why he hasn't flaunted it before – but then, he tends to hide how attracted he is to her.

She would think he respects her too much to objectify her, if not for the fact that she catches his eyes on her breasts at least three times a day. He's most likely trying not to make her uncomfortable, which she guesses she appreciates (sometimes she wishes he would give in a little more).

"Like what you see?" He asks suggestively, running a cool hand up and down her bare arm.

She takes a moment to compose herself, pasting a bright, fake smile on her face. "Your lines are so cliché, Salvatore," she deadpans, smirking at him the same way he leers at her indiscreetly.

He raises his eyebrows, drawing her attention away (thank God) from the tent currently pitching itself in his boxers. "Oh, really, _Gilbert_?" He growls, moving towards her sinuously. "You think my lines are cliché?"

She nods breathlessly, but at this point he's begun to trace random circles on her arm, a mischievous light dwelling in those mesmerizing eyes. She doesn't know why she doesn't just push him away; she's frozen.

And then suddenly he's on top of her, his hardness pressing into her center, making her ache in ways she can't deny.

"You know what else is cliché?" He asks in a low, sexy voice. His eyes are dangerously dark, and her thoughts go in places they really shouldn't be going.

She shakes her head, unable to force him off her (she hates herself for wanting him to stay exactly where he is, but want him she does). "What?"

He leans towards her, his lips full and luscious, and oh God, if he doesn't kiss her, she doesn't know what she's going to do, because he's just so _close_ and she's lost the ability to resist him, and she –

"I want to kiss you right now," he murmurs, stroking her cheek with more care than the moment probably warrants, an expression of such ineffable pain on his face that she can't breathe, "And I think you'd probably kiss me back if I did."

She can't speak for fear of saying something stupid ("I love you," for one, is hovering on the tip of her tongue), but she manages to nod. Because if he kissed her right now, she'd kiss him back with everything she has. He's been so good to her these past couple of months that when he's settled between her legs, the line between "It's always going to be Stefan" and "I will always choose you" blurs until she can't resist him.

He cups her cheek with his palm, and she wants so badly to know what he's thinking.

"But I'm not going to kiss you," he whispers. "Because the first time we really kiss, it needs to be for the right reasons."

She wants to cry. When did he become so damn noble?

He stares into her eyes for a long, long moment. "You deserve better, you know," he says thoughtfully, his expression unmistakably self-deprecating. "No matter how much I change, you're still going to deserve better."

"That's _not_ true," she contradicts him angrily, reaching up and pulling his shoulders towards hers aggressively. "This –" and she knows he'll know exactly what she means – "Has nothing to do with me deserving better or whatever." She pauses, wondering if she should say more (she doesn't know how else to explain it). "Okay?"

He looks at her uncertainly, and it's easy to imagine what he must have been like as a child: innocent and trusting and so desperately in need of love. More than anything else, that's the wrong she wants to right.

(That's the hurt she wants to heal.)

But he nods solemnly, lightly stroking her jaw, making her want to arch into him. "Okay," he agrees softly. "Okay."

He holds her gaze for another long moment, punctuated only by the sounds of their labored breathing.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and tickles her with abandon.

She's shocked, wondering what the hell he's trying to accomplish. But she locks eyes with him after a moment of ceaseless attack, and there's a pleading she's never seen before, like he's begging her to just forget any of it happened. She doesn't want to forget it (she doesn't know why they always block these moments from their memories), but she knows he needs her to.

So she closes her eyes and squeals loudly as his fingers dig into her sides.

But they can't even have one uninterrupted moment. Caroline comes bursting through the door, glowing with excitement and yelling, "Get up get up get _up_. We have so much to do today, so many people to see, and you should really–"

She abruptly drops off when she catches sight of Damon and Elena. Her wide eyes look like they're about to pop out of their sockets.

Elena has to stifle a laugh, but she concedes that it must look quite damning: Damon's shirtless and on top of her, and her hands are clutching at his back like they're on the cover of some romance novel. She doesn't move, though. She'd like to stay here forever, even if it means a _very_ embarrassed Caroline.

Sure enough, the blonde vampire shields her eyes; Elena's sure she'd be blushing if she could. "Okay, clearly you guys are preoccupied," she rambles nervously, turning right back around towards the open door. "I think I'm just going to go now, because I've already seen enough and I'd rather not be scarred for life." She waves anxiously and gets the hell out of there.

Damon and Elena exchange a look, and then they burst into laughter.

They're still laughing long after Caroline has left the house.

…

The six of them spend the day exploring Elena's old haunts: the bleachers where she's spent most of her high school days (Damon roams his eyes up and down her body and leers that he'd love to see her in her cheerleading uniform), the diner that's open all night (she explains that she came here a lot after her parents died, and he squeezes her hand), the cemetery, of course. There are tears and there are smiles and there's a lot of hugging.

Elena wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Caroline twirls around in her fetching blue sundress and sings most of the day, her voice bright and high, as pretty as her eyes. Bonnie smiles happily and loops her arm though Jeremy's. Alaric walks behind all of them and grins widely. And Elena and Damon walk ahead and let the feeling of home settle in their hearts.

Elena thinks she hasn't had such a good day in years.

Still, though, she sends Damon surreptitious looks when she thinks he's not paying attention, letting her eyes linger on the hands that were on her waist this morning, the lips that were so close to hers. He acts like nothing has changed between them, and she follows suit because she's hurt him enough.

She wonders when they're going to stop pretending.

…

The night is quiet when their car pulls out of the driveway. The air is still, the wind gentle.

Elena sighs in contentment and lace her fingers through Damon's. It's an easy movement by now, almost instinctive, and she's long given up fighting the impulse.

(Her connection to him overcomes so much else.)

It's also natural for her to simply lean across the console and nestle her body into his. She's always surprised by how perfectly her chest corresponds to his, but she thinks maybe she shouldn't be. After all, so much about them fits to begin with.

And the position is peaceful. Because despite how valiantly he's fighting his feelings for her, he gives her this comfort on a regular basis. And little by little, he's chipping away at her resistance. She's not sure if he's aware he's doing it, of course (she certainly knows it's not purposeful). But his infallible ability to take care of her is making a difference.

(_He's_making a difference.)

"Are you okay?" He asks worriedly, running a hand down her arm, making her shiver.

She nods. "I thought it would hurt, you know?" She says, looking at the dashboard and breathing him in. "Seeing everyone, realizing how much has changed, and then having to leave them again…I thought it would hurt. But –"

"But?" He urges eagerly. The word is soft, coaxing, the kind of curiosity she welcomes.

She sighs happily, looking up at him. He's smiling, tentative and beautiful, his teeth gleaming in the streaming moonlight.

"But it didn't hurt," she whispers; he offers her a wan, warm smile. "It helped a little. For example, I think I'd forgotten how much I love Caroline, even though –"

"Even though she talks a mile a minute about things that don't matter?" He interjects wryly, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her hair.

She laughs, full and real and wonderful.

"Yes," she agrees. "Even though she can be annoying and slightly ridiculous."

"Slightly?" He asks skeptically. He chuckles, and she thinks that the beauty of it is unparalleled.

"Thank you," she says suddenly.

"For what?" He asks. His lips glide noiselessly across her disheveled hair, and maybe she's never felt more for him in the entire time she's known him.

"For saving Caroline's life," she say, ignoring the way he stiffens (she can sense they're getting close to the night they avoid). "I never thanked you for doing that. It almost killed you –" Her voice breaks; he kisses her hair again, reassuringly – "And I just…thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

He doesn't say anything, and she thinks that maybe it's because they don't talk about her heart. Considering her never-ending indecision and his staunch refusal to push her on the subject, it only makes sense to avoid the topic of her feelings.

But she plows on like he isn't rigid next to her, his eyes locked on the horizon. "And thank you for bringing me home," she says, squeezing his hand. "I didn't realize how much I needed to see my family."

"You're welcome," he says softly, caressing her arm. "I just wanted to make you happy."

Her cheeks flush. He always manages to infuse these sorts of monumental declarations with a note of offhandedness, like the information is hopelessly mundane. He lives with the knowledge of how he feels about her every day, but every revelation still shakes her to the core.

"You did," she whispers. "You did make me happy."

(_You do make me happy._)

She feels him smile.

She leans against him and closes her eyes as they drive. She's not sure where they're going, but she doesn't care. She realizes that they're traveling towards something more than Klaus' "ripper" wingman.

She realizes that they're traveling towards Damon's humanity and, along with it, the future that she's only just beginning to acknowledge is possible. The future that contains Damon: Damon by her side and Damon by her heart.

The future that stretches out before her like salvation.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Saturday or Sunday.<strong>


	6. You Rip It From My Hands

**A/N: You guys were absolutely awesome last chapter with reviews (43!), so I decided to update a day early :) Thank you all SO much for your wonderful, wonderful feedback. You are hands down the reason I write.**

**And now the fun begins! Well, technically this chapter won't be very fun…it's time to get down to the nitty gritty stuff. There will be anger and fighting and bad!Damon and selfish!Elena and lots and lots of angst. Mostly because it's Damon and Elena and angst is practically their middle name – not, but you know what I mean.**

**This isn't a very long chapter, though. So it's angst, but it's not terribly long angst. Hope it doesn't hurt too much ;)**

**Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman for her wonderful help. Chapter title from "I Gave You All." Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_But it was not your fault but mine  
><em>_And it was your heart on the line.  
><em>_- "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons_

Their happy bubble of home and family (and each other, even if they won't admit it) bursts almost as soon as they leave Mystic Falls' city limits. Damon wonders if it's the knowledge that they don't know where they're going that ruins their fragile peace, or maybe just the thought of spending another few months away from home with next to nothing to show for it.

Regardless, it is all so very painful.

They spend their days in broken, weary silence, making countless loops around the country, the heat stifling and oppressive. They don't discuss the bleak future or their tumultuous past; they focus on the roads with steam coming off of them and the towns where no one has seen two dapper young men with pitch-black eyes.

The nights aren't much easier. She still lets him hold her, but now she cries once the sun goes down, silver tears leaking out of the eyes that have seen so much. She doesn't say anything, doesn't ask him to comfort her or wonder aloud what she did to deserve this wrenching pain. She just curls into him and clings tight to his shirt, as if he can make it all better.

These nights remind him why he has never been able to walk away from her. She needs him, needs him to give her whatever Stefan can't. And right now, Stefan can't give her anything, so he has to step up to fill the void that's left behind. He resents his brother for leaving him to take care of her (he resents her for letting him), but he still does it, because she needs it.

And really, he's never been able to deny her what she needs.

So he wraps his arms around her and breathes her in, breathes in that addictive smell of freesia and vanilla that reassures him she's still alive. She might be devastated and hopeless, but at least she's still breathing.

He wishes he could make her happy, but all he has is the sound of her soft exhales.

(It's almost enough.)

…

Sometimes, she yells at him.

It's usually a biting, hateful tirade; she screams that he should have a better plan to find Stefan, or that she wishes it were him who had given himself over to Klaus instead of her perfect boyfriend, or that she hates him for not getting the hell out of her life when he had the chance. She stomps her feet and slaps his face and generally causes a huge scene.

He knows better than to believe she means any of it, of course. Her cheeks are always red when she yells at him, and tears hover on her eyelashes. She's always on the verge of breaking down. She's the picture of falling apart, and it's easy to tell that she's just transferring all her emotions onto him (she wants to be screaming at Stefan right now, or maybe even herself for being stupid enough to fall for a vampire). He doesn't mind; he can handle it.

And besides, these are the parts of her he gets to keep: the selfishness, the pettiness, the dark and cold sides of her inherently good personality that she's afraid to let see the light. She's never held back around him, and he doesn't want her to start now.

So he just stands there patiently and waits for her to finish.

It's nearly always the same script: after a while, she runs out of harsh words, her chest heaving with everything she's unloaded, and he asks her gently, "Are you done?" And her face always crumples, her tears rushing like a waterfall down her pretty, pretty cheeks. And soon enough she's crying hard, blubbering that she's sorry, that she didn't mean it, that she's a horrible person and she's so glad he's here with her.

He simply sweeps her into his arms and shushes her, because he knows all this. He knows _her_.

She cries into him, holding onto him because he's the only thing she has left. And he lets her, because she's not pushing him away.

(Her apologies feel like redemption.)

…

He's not sure whether it's the heat that puts him on edge – after all, it's hit 105 degrees in Phoenix several times since they've been here. It could be the heat emanating from the vixen sitting next to him: sweat pearling on her forehead and her tiny shorts rolled up too many times and her ruby red tank top clinging to her like a second skin. She's shifting restlessly, exposing different slivers of olive skin every time she moves so much as an inch, and he constantly has to remind himself that she probably wouldn't like it if he pulled the car off the road and her into his lap.

No, she definitely wouldn't like that.

But he can't help it, goddamn it. Being cooped up with her in the confines of this stuffy car is making his pants unbearably tight.

And the worst part is, she might be doing it intentionally; he's caught her smirking once or twice, and those little moans she's been letting out on occasion are too seductive to be spontaneous.

It's just not _fair_.

So he's not in the mood to entertain her musings about finding Stefan. Obviously her mind only has three settings: finding Stefan, killing Klaus, and breaking Damon. He understands how important it is to her that they bring Stefan back from whatever dark place he's dwelling in, but he just can't deal with her endless questions today.

She props her feet up on the dashboard, her smooth legs slick with sweat (he has to look away). She's tapping her feet thoughtfully, and God, does he wish she were his.

"I don't know why Klaus isn't trying to kill other vampires," she thinks aloud, frowning as the implications of such a goal sink in. "I mean, if he wants to be the most powerful vampire in the world, shouldn't he kill off anyone who could challenge him?"

He sighs, the kind of weary sigh that seems inevitable lately. She just doesn't get it. (She never has.)

"He doesn't need to kill anyone," he tries to explain, running a white hand through his hair (he's been too preoccupied with their pointless quest to feed lately, and he's wasting away). "No one can challenge him."

He glances at the girl next to him almost out of instinct. She shudders, and he can hear the words that are most likely running through her head right now: _Not even us_.

And it's true. Not even they can challenge Klaus.

But he doesn't say that. She deserves to have her optimism. She's managed to keep it intact throughout this painful thing; who is he to deny her the solace of her delusional mind?

Except…if she's trying to kill him by way of licking her lips and arching her back, he's not so sure he wants to make her happy.

"After we find Stefan," he says carefully, reaching out to her and stroking her cheek (a small comfort, he knows, but she looks so stricken that it strikes a chord in him), "we'll go looking for the other Originals and revive them. With any luck, they'll want revenge on the brother who killed them."

She nods slowly, thinking this through. She's a smart girl, he'll give her that; she can figure this out. But then again, she was dumb enough to get involved with vampires in the first place.

(Dumb enough to get involved with the man he used to be.)

And then, she voices the worry that's been like a dark cloud hovering over his head for weeks now:

"What if they want to join him?"

His grip on the steering wheel tightens minutely, and he snatches his hand away from her cheek. Her frown deepens further, and he bites back an angry growl.

He knows he should placate her, reassure her that they'll find a way to kill Klaus, save Stefan, and neutralize all the Originals in one fell swoop. He knows she's incredibly fragile right now, that her nerves are frayed and her patience is wearing thin. He also knows that it does them no good if she's paralyzed with fear and pessimism.

Hell, he even knows she deserves a little false hope after all this disappointment.

But he's tired. He's tired of this, of all of it. He can't fight to keep up her spirits anymore; he can't fight to stoke her fire anymore. He can't fight to ignore how much he wants her, not when she's prancing around in those jean shorts that cup her ass _just_ _right._

He hasn't drunk blood in a little under a week, and the veins by his lips are starting to show. They haven't gotten anywhere near Stefan, not to mention the fact that he's pretty sure his dear baby brother (he's sneering the words in his head) doesn't want to be found. And God, he can't sit in this car with the woman he loves with his whole soul for another fruitless, torturous day.

Because she's slowly killing him. She's slowly killing him with her easy smiles and her sparkling eyes and that _laugh_.

(God, that laugh.)

And so he snaps. He snaps because he's been trying to be the better man ever since he met her, and it's gotten him nowhere. They can't find his brother despite his best efforts. And even when the man she loves has left a trail of blood across the entire country, the girl he wants still wants Stefan. Seriously, what the hell is that?

He tries to hold back the cruel words welling in his throat, he does. He bites his tongue and focuses on the hazy road, sternly telling himself to hold it together, at least until they get to the next town. He can feel her eyes on him, heavy and sad and trusting, and he wishes he were strong enough to spare her whatever's coming next. But all he can feel is how much he hates her for making him love her like this.

And then, the words are spilling out of him like the vomit spilling from her mouth at the sight of _all that blood_, and he can't stop them. The sick part is, he's not sure he wants to.

"They probably _will_ want to join him," he concedes cruelly, and there's nothing diplomatic about the words, nothing matter-of-fact or reassuring (he wants to hurt her, hurt her like she hurts him every day). "They're vampires, Elena. Of course they'll want absolute power. With him, they'd be unstoppable."

Elena shakes her head in confusion, those sad, sad eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. "Then why did you –"

"What do you want me to say?" He breaks in, a hot rush of hatred consuming him, making it easy to forget that hurting her hurts him, too. "I have no idea what the _fuck_ we're doing." (She flinches, but he pays her no heed.) "We don't know where Stefan is, or whether we can bring him back, or, for that matter, how to kill Klaus. We're just driving aimlessly around the country, hoping we run into him. They could be anywhere. They could be in _Europe_, for God's sake! Do you realize how stupid we are? How pointless this trip is? We're never going to find him, Elena. We're just going to drive forever, you and me and this _pointless_ trip. Is that what you want? _Is that what you want_?"

He's breathing heavily by the end of his ill-advised speech, his voice almost hoarse with the force of his pain. He's not entirely sure where most of that came from.

She's shocked; the blood has drained from her cheeks, and her eyes are downcast. He steels himself for her wrath. He expects her to yell back, to burn him with that fire she keeps so carefully locked away. And a part of him _wants_ her to scream at him. Maybe then, he won't feel so guilty about being a dick to her for no reason.

But she just folds her arms across her chest and fixes him with the kind of take-no-prisoners glare that never fails to turn him on (sure enough, his pants tighten, and he groans inwardly).

"You're hungry," she surmises accurately, her voice strangely unaffected. (He wonders when she became so desensitized.)

He blinks, stunned. "What does me being hungry have to do with us not being able to find your boyfriend?" (Her face crumples at the reminder, and he curses the twisted dependence they thrive on.)

She just looks at him, her eyes at once more understanding than he deserves and so sad that he wants to take it all back. "You're hungry," she repeats smugly. "You're always a jerk when you're hungry. You don't mean any of what you just said. You believe we're going to find Stefan just as much as I do. Maybe more, actually."

He shakes his head angrily. "No, Elena," he bites out, "I _want_ to believe that we're going to find Stefan. It's not the same thing."

Hurt floods her eyes, and he feels guilty almost instantaneously. But she recovers quickly: her eyes clear until she looks calm, and she reaches out an arm steadily. The movement isn't tentative; her hand isn't shaking.

And the only thing he can think is that she's officially gone insane.

He snarls, wrenching the car to the side of the road emphatically. She doesn't say anything, and he turns to face her in disbelief.

"What the hell," he asks slowly, ignoring how quickly his ear picks up her life force thundering at her wrist, how rapidly his veins descend (this is so wrong on many levels), "are you doing?"

But she doesn't move away (although at this point, it's probably in her best interest to get her intoxicating blood as far away from this starving vampire as possible). Her hand remains where it is: hovering by his mouth, tantalizing and impossible to reject.

He turns his head away unwillingly, disgusted with himself; when did he become the kind of vampire who would turn down a willing (not to mention beautiful) source of blood?

Oh, right. It probably happened right around the time she came into his life and made him care about her.

(Yeah, sometimes he hates her for that.)

She stares at him, her expression blank and composed. "Drink my blood," she offers, her insistent voice making it sound more like a command.

He shakes his head vehemently. "No." His voice hardens in response to the damage she's wrought unknowingly.

She doesn't react (he wonders how she managed to build up immunity to this kind of messed-up situation). "You haven't fed in almost a week, and you're clearly agitated," she says reasonably, stretching out her arm a bit further. "Getting blood bags from a hospital is too risky, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to go kill someone." She pauses, a beat of silence orchestrated to see whether he makes a disparaging comment (or even a denial). "Do you?"

It's a challenge, and he wants more than anything to tell her that yes, he wants to walk into a bar, seduce and compel an attractive woman, and feed on her until she's within an inch of her life. But she probably wouldn't like that, and he would rather avoid the whole "Be the better man, Damon" conversation. He's getting so sick of that speech.

Really, though, he has no desire to risk whatever progress he's made with her by taking advantage of a horny woman.

And he won't lie to her. It's part of the complex moral code he abides by when it comes to her: he won't hesitate to kill someone if it means saving her life, but he sure as hell won't lie to her.

So he just hangs his head and whispers, "No."

She simply nods slowly, bending her arm slightly, as if holding it up for so long is tiresome. He can't tell if she's satisfied with this answer; her face gives nothing away. (He wonders if in her eyes, he's already the better man.)

After a moment of strangely affable silence, Elena says coaxingly, "You really do need to drink my blood, Damon. Who knows how long it will be until you can get blood safely?"

He cringes. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows she's right. Refusing to drink her blood now means that he'll only have to drink from her later, when he's hungrier – and thus has even less control. If he's going to do it, he needs to do it right now, before he runs the risk of hurting her.

But he can't drink from her. That is a measure of connection with her that he can't accept (that she won't want to accept). He can't afford to fall for her harder. At this rate, he'll mourn her for 300 years (but he doesn't like to think about the fact that she'll die one day).

So he shakes his head again, weary, a little broken. "I can't."

She raises her eyebrows (she's been doing that a lot lately, as if he's surprising her more than usual). "You can't," she pushes, the words dangerous, veering on accusatory, "Or you won't?"

He sighs, averting his gaze because he's afraid of what she'll find in his eyes. He hates having these conversations with her. He understands why they're important, but he can't believe she still doesn't comprehend on what level he actually wants – _needs_ – her.

As in, the way he wants her means that her blood is more potent to him than anyone else's.

"I won't," he says staunchly, training his eyes on the road instead of on her exposed skin. "I don't know how to make drinking your blood clinical and detached. It wouldn't be like it was with Stefan."

"I know," she promises, looking at him oddly, like he's crazy if he thinks she doesn't understand. "That's okay."

"No, I don't think it's okay," he argues obstinately, wondering what the hell she's doing here (she is so _exhausting_). "You don't know."

She's about to protest – he can feel it in the way she shifts in her seat, her body gearing up for a fight.

So he turns to face her, fixing her chocolate brown eyes with as much ice as he can muster. Her face is warm, though, melting his every defense with ease.

He gulps. He can't help looking at the lovely column of her neck.

"I'd have to drink from your neck," he explains half-heartedly, watching her carefully, hoping a trace of fear or trepidation will haunt her face (he's just not that lucky, though). "I can't drink from your wrist because I have less control there. Plus with all the attacks going on, a bite on your wrist will look suspicious if we get separated. People will accuse you of conspiring with whoever's doing the attacks. At least with your neck, you can just say you were attacked and you don't remember anything."

He pauses, assuming she'll jump in with some insipid platitude about how she trusts him completely or some shit like that. But she just nods almost disappointedly, as if she expected him to have a much better method of resistance than that.

She withdraws her hand nonchalantly and tilts her head, as if to give him better access to her neck.

His mouth waters. Who _is_ this girl?

She waits patiently, and he desperately casts about for reasons that will convince her this is a bad idea. Her mouth parts as if of its own volition, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips; her attraction to him is on display, and suddenly he knows exactly what he needs to say.

"It would forge a connection between us," he says slowly, looking at her lips meaningfully, making sure she understands exactly what he's implying. "Because we already know each other –" _Because I love you _– "It wouldn't be simple. It would be difficult for me to stop."

He expects her to falter, even just a little bit, but she only nods dutifully. He supposes she's heard this before (although Stefan is probably not the best person to consult on the subject).

He sweeps his hair off his forehead warily. He's surprised when her eyes trace his movement, and he wonders idly if it's getting harder and harder for her to hide and dismiss her attraction to him, even to herself. (Not that it matters as long as she's hell-bent on pretending she feels nothing for him.)

He tries one final time. He needs her to falter. He can't explain it, but he needs her to understand why he shouldn't drink her blood.

"Do you remember when you told me we have something?" He asks her tenderly, relishing the way her entire face softens at the memory (his face softens, too). "An understanding." He wants to be cold to her, but she's too warm; the memory is too precious.

She nods. "Yes," she whispers, the word reverent.

He smiles a little, his lips full with contentment. "Elena, drinking your blood would mean something," he says, reaching out and touching her cheek briefly. "Something we can't take back."

She frowns, clearly confused. He doesn't think he wants to know why she doesn't get it.

"But Stefan and I love –" She begins stubbornly. She claps a hand over her mouth, uncertain, and he can tell she's debating whether the present or the past tense is appropriate here; strangely, the sight stings. Finally, she just shakes her head, avoiding the issue altogether (not that he blames her). "We had a connection, too. Why wasn't he worried about it 'meaning something' or whatever?"

The words are defiant, daring him to give her an explanation she isn't going to like. He sighs, reaching over to touch her again. He picks up the acceleration in her breathing as his fingers thread in the hair at the nape of her neck, his eyes caressing what he won't let his hands touch.

He doesn't really know how to explain what he means. He supposes he could tell her that what he and her have is very different than what she and Stefan have (had?); it's, messier, more convoluted, infinitely more rare. He could tell her that Stefan's concern would always have been not taking too much of her blood, whereas he's more concerned with making sure she doesn't shatter at the emotion behind it. He could even tell her that he loves her in a different way than his brother, more fiercely; he could even tell her he knows how to make drinking from her a literally orgasmic experience for them both.

But he settles for simply explaining, "When Stefan drank your blood, he wasn't hungry; he was trying to build up a tolerance to human blood. I'm hungry, Elena. I can't take the amount of blood from you that I really need." He pauses. "Not without hurting you, at least."

This isn't really the truth, of course. He has always had impeccable control of his bloodlust, and taking a safe amount of blood from her won't be a problem. What will be a problem is how she feels while it's happening. He's afraid he'll end up transferring his feelings for her to her, and he's almost positive she would recoil from him.

But she shrugs, a careless movement that isn't faked. "It's just blood," she says, brushing him off completely. "It'll replenish itself."

She sounds like she could care less what happens to her, and he seethes with barely suppressed anger. This infuriating, maddening, _captivating_ girl has absolutely no regard for her own life. Sometimes he'd like to kill her for it (the irony of it makes him squirm).

And so he snaps again. He's been holding in all this anger and fear and worry for months, and he doesn't have the strength to hide all his emotions from her. Not today. Not anymore.

Not when she's practically offering herself up on a silver platter.

"You seriously don't get it, do you?" He asks incredulously, shaking from the force of his fury.

"Get what?" She blinks. He can tell she's being deliberately obtuse, and it's the last straw.

"I told you I loved you," he growls, holding her gaze as the air seems to hum with anticipation. "You _kissed_ me. If I drink your blood, you're going to feel exactly what I felt in that moment. Hell, you're going to feel what I _still_ feel. I don't think you want to go there."

She blinks at him again, her eyes wide with disbelief. He hates himself for caring that he's crossed the invisible line she's drawn time and time again.

"We don't just have an understanding, Elena," he continues, purposely throwing her own words back into her face until she flinches. "What happened between us – what _is_ happening between us – is much, much bigger than that. I can't just ignore that."

She quickly looks away, color flooding her olive cheeks. He doesn't care that she doesn't want to talk about this; he's glad he's made her nervous. She deserves to feel the way he's felt ever since she told him she likes him just the way he is and kissed him entirely on her own.

(She deserves to feel this all-consuming confusion.)

And besides, he has to continue. He doesn't want to hurt her (no matter what he tries to tell himself), and he knows she wants him to forget what happened that night. But he can't.

He just can't.

"I can't drink your blood because I can't control myself around you," he stresses, his voice wavering as he fights to articulate how much she means to him. "You make me _crazy_. I don't trust myself not to take too much from you. Not to mention that taking blood from your neck would be much too sexual for either of us to handle. I don't think we should go down that road. Frankly, I don't think you want to know how much I want you."

And then, he has to look away, too, stunned by everything he's just said. He really can't believe he essentially told her that he'd be too distracted by her body not to kill her. He doesn't say this kind of stuff to her. He sticks to the epic declarations of love and crazed promises that he'll always choose her. He never touches the topic of his monumental attraction to her, mostly because she doesn't need to add that to her list of concerns.

So he tries to fix it, of course.

"All I mean is that it's not a good idea," he murmurs, his voice more subdued now. He doesn't turn back to her. "I'm too hungry to be careful with you."

But she's still hung up on what he's said before; she's blinking constantly, and her skin is much paler than usual. (He'd be worried if not for the words she says next.)

"I thought we agreed not to talk about it," she whispers, her face ashen.

He sighs heavily. Sometimes he thinks he hates her; she makes him so angry.

But his speech took a lot out of him. He doesn't have the energy to fight her on this.

So he shakes his head. "No, Elena," he breathes, looking over at her even as she stares stubbornly out the window. "_You_ decided we shouldn't talk about it. I've wanted to talk to you about it ever since it happened. I've just been respecting your space."

She stiffens, sitting up a little straighter. Her hair falls in a dark curtain down her back, and all he wants to do is sweep the long locks off her neck and take everything she's offering. (But he can't, he won't.)

"I just don't know what to say about it," she admits quietly. He can tell it pains her.

He sucks in a breath. As usual, she's knocked him cold with her honestly. He knows how conflicted she is, yes, but whenever she refers to said confusion, he finds himself floundering.

But he tries valiantly to recover (no need to make things more awkward than they have to be). "Well, I know what to say about it," he surges on, his voice much more confident than he feels. "It happened. It meant something. That's all. We can move on."

He expects her to change the subject right away, to accept the segue with a relief that will shatter him anew. But she doesn't say anything.

"Unless…" He says slowly, wondering why he hasn't thought about this before (probably because it seemed too good to be true). "Unless you don't _want_ to move on?"

She stiffens further still.

He shakes his head. "You and me on that bed, when we thought I was dying…" He knows there's probably wonder flooding the words, but no matter; she deserves to know that he'll cherish that moment for as long as he lives. "That _meant_ something. Didn't you feel it?"

He's begging, he realizes, his free hand involuntarily tugging on the soft skin of her shoulder.

She nods, swiveling her head back towards him, her eyes sparkling in the stretching sunlight.

"Of course I felt it," she says quietly, steadily. There's no remorse in her gaze, and he wonders if she's thinking what he is: _How could I not feel it?_

He can feel her waiting; she's waiting for him to force her to explain herself. And, well, he definitely intends to deliver what she's expecting.

"I'm not dumb enough to believe you love me," he murmurs, stroking her cheek longingly; she doesn't shrink away, instead continuing to stare straight into him, past every defense he's built up to prevent exactly what's happening now. "But I'm certainly dumb enough to believe you feel something for me."

She bites her lip, the briefest flash of indecision alighting in those brown eyes. He looks at her and decides that for once, he's going to ask her for what he needs, ask her even though she might not be ready to give it to him. Because she might not ever be ready, and he needs to know now.

"I can't do this for much longer," he whispers, cupping her cheek. She leans into his palm, her eyelashes fluttering (he thinks he might kiss her whether she welcomes the invasion or not). "I can't love you like this, watch you love Stefan like this. It's too hard. You're the one thing I refuse to be selfish about, but it's getting more and more difficult. So I need you to tell me…"

He trails off, trying to gauge how she's feeling. He's accustomed by now to the shock and disbelief that accompanies these sorts of ardent speeches; it doesn't really faze him anymore. But the only emotion she's showing is in her eyes, and all he can see is the indecision that has been his constant companion for months now.

He runs a finger along her temple. "I need you to tell me if you feel something for me," he whispers. "Tell me, and we'll figure it out, okay? We'll figure it all out, I promise."

Her eyes dart quickly about the car, obviously searching for a safe place to land. He thinks wearily that he'd like to be her safe place to land for the rest of her life (except that right now, he's the one she wants protection from).

Finally, she merely stares at him, her cheeks fraught with worry.

He sighs in exasperation, pulling his hand reluctantly away from her. "Fine," he says, making an effort not to sound petulant or resentful (even though right now he wants to strangle her). "Be that way. Don't say anything. What do I care?" He can hear the note of pettiness in his voice, and he looks away from her.

She swallows, hard. The sound echoes in the enclosed space.

He looks at her. "What do you want, Elena?" He asks her as gently as he can, reminding himself that she's loved his brother long enough that this has got to be really difficult for her. If nothing else, he can sympathize (it's not like he likes coveting something of his brother's).

She blinks. "I don't know."

He resists the urge to yell at her, instead just shaking his head. "That's not good enough."

(And it's not, it's really not.)

She sighs, reaching up to touch his cheek lightly. He holds very, very still, afraid that she'll move away, that she'll realize what she's doing and stop.

But she doesn't. She just strokes his cheek and whispers, "Of course I feel something for you. You're you. I feel a lot more than just something for you."

He lets out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding in.

She smiles, soft, ethereal. "Okay?"

He nods nervously. "Okay."

And if only for right now, it really is okay.

…

She ambushes him in the middle of the night, when he's too exhausted to fight her. He's fast asleep, drained from lack of blood (not to mention trying to ascertain her feelings for him), and he doesn't notice her creeping over to him. He certainly doesn't hear the scratch of a knife (the knife he makes her keep under her pillow while she sleeps) against her skin.

And then suddenly she's on top of him, her bleeding wrist shoved into his mouth, and he can't stop himself. He knows exactly what she's doing, of course, and he wants to push her off of him, scream at her for being so drastically _stupid_.

But her blood is too good, and he is too hungry, and so he drinks from her greedily, finding it difficult to heed her small cries of pain. This is raw; he has no finesse when he's this starved. He can tell he might actually be hurting her, but now that he's started, the red liquid pouring down his throat is simply too mind-numbingly delicious to refuse.

It only takes a minute for him to fill his veins with enough energy to last him another week or so. And then, he's sitting up, pushing her away and glaring at her with renewed vigor.

She blinks innocently. "What?"

"You," he says slowly, wiping his mouth and trying to forget how good she tastes, "Are an idiot."

She smiles smugly, crossing her arms over her small but ideal chest (yeah, he notices these things even when she's infuriating him to no end). "Maybe so, but I got you to feed, didn't I?"

He glowers at her, not caring that this is clearly a scene right out of a romance novel. Maybe that's the problem, though – he has never wanted her to be so helpless, so willing to surrender herself. She's supposed to be his equal, not some damsel in distress who likes to forget how dangerous he can be.

"God, you're not supposed to be this cliché," he finds himself roaring, lunging at her and bracing her against the wall because he's so _furious_ with her that he's afraid he'll snap her neck if he doesn't hold her still. "You're not supposed to be the girl who offers herself to a hungry vampire. You're supposed to be stronger than that. I could have _killed_ you, Elena."

She cocks her head defiantly. "I knew you wouldn't."

He groans. "And you thought ambushing me was the best way to make sure I didn't lose control?"

Her smile fades a little, and she shifts uncomfortably. He wonders if she's discovered his raging hard-on yet (he hasn't exactly learned how to suppress that urge when she's this close).

"You were getting weak," she says carefully, clearly ignoring his question. "If we ran into Klaus any time soon, you wouldn't have been able to kill him. Not to mention overpowering Stefan would have been impossible."

He stiffens almost automatically. It all makes sense to him now.

"So basically, you wanted me to feed from you for Stefan's sake?" He asks acerbically, releasing her shoulders emphatically and backing away from her because he can't stand to be around her right now.

Her cheeks flame; he can tell she's realized she's made a crucial mistake. "That's not what this was about," she rushes to clarify.

"Oh, really?"

She shakes her head, panic flashing through her eyes. "No," she tries to explain, wringing her hands in the air like the word makes a difference (all he hears is his brother's name on her lips). "I wanted you to feed from me for _your_ sake, Damon. Stefan had nothing to do with it. I didn't –"

"Whatever, Elena," he spits out in disgust, turning around and walking back towards the bed. "Whatever."

He can feel her anguish, but he doesn't care. He climbs under the covers and faces the wall instead of her side of the bed. It's the clearest message he can send.

Sure enough, she wobbles silently into bed and faces away from him, too, her slender body shaking slightly.

"I didn't mean it," she whispers.

"It doesn't matter, Elena," he says quietly. "You know it doesn't matter."

They don't talk after that.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update late Monday or early Tuesday.<strong>


	7. This Weakness I Feel I Must Finally Show

**A/N: I'm updating early because you guys were awesome again - 51 reviews! I mean, really. WOW!**

**Now we deal with more of the fantastic, crazy, mesmerizing Delena issues that keep me watching the show as fanatically as I do. The most I can promise is that Damon and Elena have a semi-honest conversation about what they want from each other. It may or may not end happily…I've confused you, haven't I? :) ****So now, on with the chapter!**

**Title from "Thistle & Weeds" by Mumford & Sons. Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, who makes me so utterly happy with all her help. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_I know that things are broken.  
>I know there's too many words left unsaid.<br>You say you have spoken; like the coward I am, I hang my head.  
><em>_-"Liar" by Mumford & Sons_

People always talk about their fondest memories. But when Elena thinks about her mother, it's not the fond memories she lingers on. Instead, she remembers the zoo.

Elena's mother often took her to the zoo for a much-needed break from their regularly scheduled drama. She said that it was important to appreciate the natural environment and all that shit. Mostly, though, she clapped her hands in childish glee and jumped at the chance to see the "pretty parrots."

Elena didn't enjoy these trips to the zoo, probably because the tigers bared their teeth at her and the elephants smelled. It seemed like an alien world, one she had no desire of inhabiting.

As the years passed, the visits to the zoo became more and more infrequent. Elena never discovered why, but she figured that her mother was simply busier than before. Regardless, she didn't miss the trips much.

She yearns for that zoo now. She's not sure what she misses so much, but sometimes, she can faintly smell the earthy aroma that the recreated Amazon rainforest emitted. Sometimes, she's convinced she can see the giraffes lounging in the sunlight. Sometimes, she can even hear the trumpeting of the elephants as they gallivanted about their pens.

Always, she can feel her mother.

She knows that if she went back to that zoo now, she wouldn't be frightened at all, and her nose certainly wouldn't twitch at the repugnant smells. She has seen and inhaled too much blood for the zoo to affect her much at all anymore.

Somehow, the thought makes her very sad.

…

Elena and Damon don't talk much anymore. There's no cuddling in bed, no hands intertwined on top of unfamiliar sheets. There's only silence, and fear, and the knowledge that if they gave into the electric current constantly flowing between them, they might survive.

(There's only the knowledge that they might never be that brave.)

When they do talk, it's awkward and stilted. It's like they don't even know each other anymore.

Elena has to remind herself that Damon knows everything about her, especially the things she fights to hide: why she became a cheerleader (she was spoiled and pretty and high on life), how she thinks her parents' death fractured her brother's heart in ways that not even Bonnie can heal (a boy always needs his father), that she's afraid that everyone around her will die eventually (Miranda and Grayson and Jenna and John and Isobel and even Jules). She has to remind herself that no matter which difficulties they might be facing, he is still hers and she is still (somewhat) his and they can get through this.

But he doesn't pay attention to her. He's curt and assertive and demanding, and it _hurts_. She's so frightened most of the time, and he no longer tries to reassure her. He simply shoots her a disgusted look whenever tears flood her eyes, as if he's not hurting, too.

She doesn't recognize him. Not like this.

So she holds herself inside. She holds all of it inside, especially the many things she wants to ask him: _when did you become someone who would turn down blood_? and _why can't we just stop doing this to each other_? and _will it ever, ever be enough_? Most importantly, she wants to ask him the one question she knows she has no business demanding the answer to:

_Why do you love me_?

She thinks it might be easier if she understood how he felt about her. She's been horrible to him countless times, and he's never wavered in his affection. He is sure and steady, even when she tells him adamantly that it will always be Stefan (she doesn't know when that became a lie). And that's scary.

What's scarier, though, is the thought of him not loving her. His love for her has been such a given over the past few months that she can't imagine living without it.

It's horrible and selfish and cruel, but it is what it is. (She is always selfish when it comes to him, after all.)

But as the days pass and the silence stretches on, she just stares at him instead of trying to fix them. She drinks in the light blue of his eyes and the hair at the nape of his neck, and she wishes, like she does at least five times a day, that she were braver.

Because she's not brave. She is a scared little girl.

And she cannot make herself reach for him.

…

They're resting in a motel in Araphoe, Colorado when Elena finally cracks.

It takes her a moment to figure out what does it. (He confuses her enough these days that nothing makes sense.)

It's not that it's been at least two weeks since she touched another person – Damon hasn't touched her since she forced him to drink her blood, and they rarely encounter people on their solitary road trip. It's not the weather, because although the temperature's in the high 80s, the air isn't humid and she doesn't feel sticky with sweat or lust. It's not the gentle slope of Damon's back as he sits on the bed in their cramped room, his head in his hands, or the soft shudders she can hear from her perch on the other side of the room. It's not how broken he looks, how defeated; it's not the way his entire body is shaking.

Because this – him hunching over on the bed they always seem to have to share, her barely managing to keep herself together – happens a lot. They both break down almost every night, huge, racking sobs and the mind-numbing loneliness that pervades their unlikely union. They never comfort each other; they suffer in silence, battling exhaustion and sorrow when dawn finally breaks.

She never thought she'd see the day when the great Damon Salvatore would cry regularly. But the day has come, and it is humbling. He is so _human _to her now. A part of her rejects the knowledge that he is a vampire, because he is so fragile during these long, bitter nights.

She hates herself for cramming her wrist into his mouth, but she can't undo what she's done. He hasn't forgiven her yet, and she doesn't expect him to.

Because really, after all this time spent trying to convince him to let her in, she knows better than to accuse him of overreacting. She knows exactly why he's so devastated and angry. She understands why he won't talk to her, why his eyes are heavy with something vaguely resembling disappointment. She took advantage of him. She used him. In essence, she violated the trust that took so long to earn.

And even all of that is not what makes her crack.

She cracks because he's only saying one word into the darkness, whispering two syllables like they matter more than anything else (like they can bring him back):

_Stefan_.

She feels something inside of her rip.

And then, she's bounding across the room and onto the small bed, every bone in her weary body aching to just _touch_ him, to absorb some of his horrific pain. Suddenly her arms are going around him, and she's holding him tightly, because she knows that they have lost their guiding light forever, that they only have each other.

That they have nowhere left to search.

And somehow, as she cradles him in her arms, nothing but this moment matters anymore – not their altercation in the middle of the night weeks ago, not the brother they have no hope of finding, not his love and her not-quite-love. Nothing.

Because he doesn't push her away (so much of their relationship is about push and pull). He is here, and she is here, and he leans into her. He leans, and she lets him.

He clutches her to him and whispers nonsensical words into her hair, words that sound like _I'm sorry _and _I love you_ and _I need you_. She can't bear his apologies (she's the one who ruined whatever complicated, beautiful thing they had), so she shushes him and whispers promises of a better future and declarations of her guilt and admissions that she needs him, too.

He kisses her forehead, and she knows that she'll never be able to repay him for everything he has given her.

They sit there for a long while, lost in the haven of silence. This stolen moment can't last, of course. In the morning, when they are both coherent and focused (on the search for Stefan, on ignoring the behemoth of feeling between them), they will probably pretend it never happened. He will continue to ignore her coldly, and she will continue to fume. She knows that this is only temporary. Like most things with him, this sort of perfection is impossible to maintain.

So she closes her eyes, burrows deeper, and breathes in the man who is a part of her.

…

But they don't pretend it never happened. (She thinks maybe they can't anymore.)

They construct a sort of fragile peace over the next few days. Not much is said directly – they're still working on the lines of communication – but they've always thrived on unspoken words and evocative gestures. Most of their negotiating plays out in the form of raised eyebrows and softened jaws, subtle brushes of arms and hair tucked behind ears.

Slowly, they learn to be around each other again, to joke and touch and just _be_.

It's difficult to adapt to the new distance between them. She expects their reunion to be tentative and uneasy, of course, but it still hurts. They are both stubborn, and so redrawing the boundaries is a grueling process. They spend many nights just screaming at each other, unintelligible sounds that float out into the darkness. There's too much they cannot say for fear of destroying themselves further, so they just groan and yell and push each other.

And still, despite how tenuous their truce may be, she always ends up in his arms in her sleep.

She sometimes thinks that her rash, miscalculated decision to force Damon to drink her blood against his explicit refusal was never the problem. It was simply the last straw, so to speak.

Their problems have been escalating ever since they left Mystic Falls. Yes, they've been happy sometimes, but it's surface joy. Their issues haven't gone away; if anything, they have intensified.

Because he still loves her, and she still cannot let go of Stefan. She has seen the horrible crimes he has committed, and still, she cannot accept that the Stefan she loved is gone.

Essentially, they are exactly where they started.

And one day, when they have settled in Farmington, New Mexico for the night (Damon is simply following his nose at this point, listening to the radio for strange animal attacks and the like), Elena cannot bear the status quo any longer. She will not last another day in this weird limbo. She hates when the balance between her and Damon has been compromised; she can't stand it.

So she reaches out to him as they walk through the hotel room threshold, her hand tangling with his as messily as her heart has always danced with his. She knows her eyes must be watering, but she doesn't care.

He turns around, dropping their bags on the floor unceremoniously, the pronounced muscles in his back rippling. He fixes her with the kind of heart-stopping gaze that means she should probably look away, lest she lose control completely. But she doesn't look away.

(She can't look away.)

"What, Elena?" He asks tiredly, boredom so evident in his voice that she recoils. She has no idea how they got this fucked up. It just doesn't make sense.

But she holds her ground, squeezing his fingers as if the mere pressure of his skin on hers will give her strength. "We need to talk," she whispers, looking up at him with all the courage she can muster.

He sighs, the sound familiar, if only for how lonely and final it is. "What would you like to talk about?"

She thinks for a moment. Where to start?

He beats her to it, though. He shakes his head slowly, almost ruefully, like this whole thing is a mistake, and murmurs, "We could talk about how you shoved your bleeding wrist into my mouth, I suppose. Or we could talk about your saint of a boyfriend, who you refuse to admit has fallen off the deep end. We could even talk about the fact that I love you, I guess. Take your pick."

She rocks back on her heels, shocked. She wasn't expecting this – any of it. He hasn't been able to string more than five words together in weeks, not to mention that she assumed he would be the most tongue-tied when it came to discussing their…relationship. (Not to mention that he just told her he loved her like he was telling her what the weather will be like tomorrow.)

She stares at him quizzically, trying to discern what he's thinking. "You would actually talk about all that?"

He smiles at her, but it looks like it pains him; the curve of his lips is bittersweet. "Haven't you realized, Elena," he whispers, stroking her cheek tenderly, the way he used to (before she was monumentally stupid), "That I'm unable to refuse you?"

He gazes into her eyes, piercing, all-consuming. She feels naked, raw, exposed.

And still, she can only nod numbly, wrapping her fingers more resolutely around his, as if to persuade him that she's not going anywhere, that she's getting closer and closer to where he needs her to be. Maybe it's a fool's errand, but she has to try.

"I have a question, actually," she begins, clearing her throat. She desperately wants to avert her gaze, but she forces herself to stay where she is.

He makes a move to cross his arms, and she reluctantly releases his hand. She knows she has to give him space when he implicitly asks for it.

He's silent for a moment, his face impassive.

He sighs again at last, his eyes weary and forgiving at once. "Go ahead."

She's surprised that he's given her permission to continue, but she knows she shouldn't be. He must be thinking that she can't possibly say anything that would hurt him. She's already used all the weapons in her arsenal, even the ones that are specifically designed to break him. (She uses them because she's afraid of getting broken herself.)

She just hopes this doesn't shatter him completely.

She looks down at her hands nervously, dreading his reaction but unable to stop herself. "Why do you love me?"

A long moment passes.

And then, he laughs incredulously, and her eyes snap up to meet his, her gaze calm yet demanding. His control of the sound flowing from his mouth unnerves her. She doesn't like that he feels like he has to contain himself around her.

(She can only blame herself for that, though.)

"Really?" He asks disbelievingly, leaning towards her with an intent that thrills her. "That's really all you have to ask me?"

She hesitates briefly, then nods. All the other questions that hover on the tip of her tongue are too difficult to ask him, even if she did want to know the answers.

(And she's not sure she wants to know anything anymore.)

He grins acerbically, leaning away from her, as if he doesn't want to be close to her (the thought stings). "I don't think you deserve the answer to that question," he explains, more gently than the words probably warrant.

She lifts her chin defiantly. "Why not?"

His smile doesn't falter, but the light in his eyes dims a little. She immediately regrets broaching this subject at all, but this is who she really is: she's the girl who fights and pushes for information, especially information that's not really hers to know. He's always been able to handle that, and she doesn't want to hide from him.

And anyways, no matter how much she doesn't want to hurt him, she has to know.

"I don't think you understand how much I've already given up to you," he says carefully, backing away from her slowly, as if he doesn't think she'll notice. "I don't think you should have this part of me, too."

She cocks her head, confused. "What are you saying?"

His eyes dart about the room, as if he's afraid of her (she realizes he might be, and the thought is inexplicably saddening). "I'm saying that you've already manipulated me enough," he bites out, the words like a physical blow to her chest, "And it's selfish of you to ask me why I love you when you know perfectly well that I can't help it."

The honesty of his speech makes her brash, because a part of her knows he's right.

"So basically, you love me because I'm selfish like Katherine?" She lashes out, taking quick, hurried steps backwards (his proximity often does more harm than good).

But Damon just smiles angelically. "Now say it like you believe it, honey," he coos, his voice too saccharine to be sincere.

Elena clenches her fists and resists the urge to hit him. She won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten her all riled up (it's what he does best).

So she crosses her arms and squares her shoulders, staring him down with the only thing she's ever been grateful to Katherine for: the Petrova fire.

"Well, if that's not it, then why?" She pushes, glaring at him. "Because you seem to spend most of your time telling me I'm being stupid and manipulative."

"Most of the time you _are_ stupid and manipulative," he explains condescendingly, a sort of lazy, indulgent smile gracing those sculpted features, as if he knows that this question has been eating at her for days, "And definitely selfish. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that you're perfect, because you're sure as hell not. But you're –"

"But I'm what?" She interjects, breathless.

His gaze softens, and she wants nothing more than to touch his cheek. She can tell that he never meant to reveal this much. She realizes he probably views this as giving her more ammunition to break him.

But she doesn't see it like that. She can only feel how much she wants to love him the way he loves her.

(How much she _could_ love him, if she only took a chance.)

"But you're kind," he murmurs, his eyes full of love, "And you're compassionate. Sure, you take so much from me and often don't give anything back. And yes, sometimes you use me for your own purposes. I won't pretend that that doesn't make it difficult to love you. Sometimes I even hate you. But at the end of the day, I'm still going to love you anyways, because you've changed me. Who you are…"

He trails off, his voice full of wonder. Her eyes water.

He closes his eyes, the gesture almost reverent. "I love you because you make me better," he whispers, the words slow and sweet and heartbreaking. "You make everyone better. That's why I love you. That's why I won't ever stop loving you."

Her eyes flutter. This is too much. This is all too much.

She knows she should stand and take it. She should look into his eyes and accept that the way he loves her is huge and significant. She should hold still and let him have this moment with her, because it might be all she's ever able to give him.

But instead, she runs away.

She backs up hurriedly, bumping into the chair behind her and plopping down without really paying attention to where she's sitting. She breathes hard for a long moment, her eyes wild. She braces her hands on her knees and trembles, wondering how in the hell she's going to get out of this situation.

Finally, she just shakes her head emphatically.

"Oh, you'll get over me eventually," she argues flippantly, trying not to show how much the thought of him with someone else – anyone else – bothers her, even as her voice wavers unmistakably. "You really only want me because I'm Stefan's."

She honestly doesn't know why she said any of that. The words spewing out of her mouth don't make sense, but she's too terrified to think clearly. She just doesn't understand how a sadistic vampire like Damon can love her like he does: fiercely, passionately.

Unconditionally.

It's incongruous with the man she once cursed so vehemently.

But then, none of that matters, because he's crossing the room.

He comes to a screeching stop in front of her, his teeth bared like the feral animal she knows he is. She looks up at him blankly, unprepared for the suddenness – the sheer _power_ – of his wrath.

His eyes are hard, unforgiving. "Is that what you think?" He spits through clenched teeth, his hands gripping either side of the chair, encasing her. "Is that really what you think?"

She leans back into the chair, almost…frightened. Confronting the truth about his feelings for her is always scary, and his refusal to acquiesce even a little bit throws her. He's not supposed to be this difficult to get rid of. It's not supposed to be so difficult for her to feel nothing for him. It shouldn't be so difficult, but it is.

(Oh God, it _is_.)

She doesn't say anything. She _can't_ say anything. He's completely paralyzed her.

He stays where he is for a long, tense moment, his face inches from hers, his eyes harried, his cheeks bright with hectic spots of sweat.

And yet…despite how truly pissed off he seems, she can still feel the invisible tether between them. She can still feel the knowledge that they're connected in a way she might never understand pulsing in the air around them.

(She can still feel _him_.)

He holds her gaze like it might be the last time he ever looks at her. And then, he straightens, touches a hand to her cheek briefly, and strides away without so much as a backward glance.

She trembles and doesn't know why she feels like she's lost something.

Something she can't get back.

…

Later, much later, she wakes him because she doesn't know what else to do.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into the darkness.

He doesn't say anything.

…

The next morning, Elena wakes up desperate. She knows she has to do something, but she isn't sure what. She messed up, badly, and she has to fix it.

So she doesn't think. She just acts.

She shoves Damon, throwing off the covers like they burn (like she often burns him). He's resistant to her aggressive touch, rolling back towards her in his sleep, his hair mussed gloriously. A lump settles in her throat. His eyes slowly flutter open, groggy and wary, and she wants to remember this moment forever.

He gazes at her through bleary, beautiful blue orbs. "What?" He asks, reaching for her blindly. His voice is thick and viscous, and she's never needed his lips on hers more.

"Kiss me," she commands hotly, putting her hands on her hips. She doesn't know where the words come from, but God help her, she means them.

(Suddenly, all she wants is for him to kiss her.)

His eyes widen, and he sits up abruptly. "You want me to _what_?"

She just stares at him coolly, clambering off the bed so she can stand up and face him like the brave girl she has to be. "Kiss me."

His eyes burn their way up and down her scantily clad body, lingering on her bare legs and collarbone. "Don't test me," he warns, licking his lips lasciviously (her knees give way). "Trust me, you won't like what you find. And you _certainly_ won't like what I do next."

She lifts her chin higher, something like fire blazing in her chest. "Then don't look at me like you want to eat me alive," she says fiercely. "If you want to kiss me, then do it, Damon. Don't hold back on my account."

But then, she panics. Asking him to kiss her was just something she said in the heat of the moment; she was tired, and sad, and upset that she messed things up with him. She's not sure she wants his lips on hers.

But does she really think he won't call her bluff?

Sure enough, he grins, that devilish grin that steals the breath from her lungs. He waits for perhaps half a minute, staring at her like he expects her to run away. And then, he climbs off the bed, stalks towards her with all the grace of a panther, and settles his hands comfortably on her waist.

A resistant gasp flees her mouth, and she tries to push him backwards. But instead of bracing her hands against his chest and shoving him with all her might like she intends to, she ends up twining her arms around his neck. She honestly has no idea how it happens.

His obvious glee and anticipation doesn't fade as he drags a finger down to the hem of her skimpy tank top and lightly scrapes her skin; it only intensifies.

"You sure about that?" He breathes, delicately hooking his fingers under the waistband of her pajama shorts. He stops just short of reaching lower still, and she doesn't know why the hell she hasn't stopped him yet. Where's her restraint, her modesty? For God's sake, where's her _loyalty_?

(On the side of the road with all those devastated bodies.)

She should run away right about now. But she just nods quickly. After all, she's come this far. And she's never been one to back down from a challenge (especially a challenge from him).

He smiles wider, bowing his head so his lips are hovering just above hers. His eyes are gleaming, alight with the excitement of the chase.

She can't move away. God help her, but she can't move away. He's going to have to let go first, because she sure as hell won't. She can only hope that he has more restraint than she does.

But he looks so _hungry_…

"You know," he whispers seductively, his voice like velvet, lulling her into him, "I can always tell when you're lying."

She has absolutely no idea what he's talking about, but she holds his gaze obdurately and bites back the choice swear word threatening to spill out of her mouth. She won't let him get to her, she just won't (even if his hands on her hips are making her dizzy). Of course she's hoping that he doesn't take advantage of her stubbornness, but really, she knows better. He's going to kiss her, and there is absolutely no way that she'll be able to resist him.

(After all, she's been ignoring her attraction to him ever since she met him, and this is too much for her.)

He smiles again, softer now; he's clearly pleased that she's not trying to stop him. It's a genuine smile, and one tinged with the sort of lust that makes every bone in her sensitive body tremble with need.

He runs a hand back up her side, his fingers just barely grazing the underside of her breast. She braces herself against the thrill of his touch and doesn't look down, despite the heat spiraling in her chest.

"You're shaking," he observes accurately. "You're nervous."

She doesn't mean to, but she nods vehemently, unconsciously arching into him, colliding with his jean-clad legs. His hand is suddenly tight on her waist, holding her firmly in place. He growls lowly; she thinks it might be the sexiest sound she's ever heard.

She blinks. God, she hates what he does to her. Her breathing is shallow, sweat has broken out on her forehead, and her legs are vibrating in an uneven rhythm that does little to steady her hammering heart. And the worst part is, he hasn't even really touched her yet.

(She doesn't know when a scene like this even became plausible.)

He strokes the side of her face. "You're wrong, you know," he murmurs, his eyes boring into hers with the kind of ice that holds her still when all else is rushing by.

She cocks her head, selfishly enjoying the way his gaze drops to her collarbone. "Wrong about what?" She asks (although at this point, she just wants him to shut the hell up and kiss her).

He thumbs her lips, the touch soft yet insistent, mundane yet somehow exquisite. His eyes are very, very warm. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until she can't help but let out a low exhale.

"I'll never get over you," he promises gently.

And then, his lips are on hers, and she doesn't have time to react, doesn't have time to process what he's just said (doesn't have time to whisper back the same sentiment), because his tongue dipping into her mouth is as gravity-defying as a kiss will probably ever get for her.

His hands are hot on her waist, bringing her flush against the length of his hard, strong body. He's kissing her with reckless abandon, covering her mouth with his in the kind of practiced, natural, _searing_ movement that she feels in every nerve ending of her electrified body. Her hands unintentionally linger on his neck, tugging his head down, inviting him to take from her because she wants to give him _everything_.

His hands roam her stomach, her sides, the small of her back, and she utters a moan into his mouth. He tugs her closer still, letting out a guttural groan of his own, a sound that sends fire flaming through her veins.

But suddenly, he cradles her face in his hands, the touch almost radiating affection. Tears spring to her eyes.

She could pull away right now, she knows. She could jump away guiltily and leave him to ponder what just happened. If she stops right now, she could write off that monumental kiss as a moment of weakness. She could attribute throwing herself at him as a mere consequence of sexual frustration. If she stops them right now, they could go back to the way things were, when they were fighting the desire to do exactly this.

What's more, she probably _should_ pull away.

The longer she kisses him, the easier it is to believe that she and him could love each other like this forever – the easier it is to forget that she promised it would always be Stefan.

And she can't forget Stefan. She just can't.

But she doesn't pull away. She doesn't even wrench her lips from Damon's.

Instead, she lets her hands slip from his neck. Instead, she cups his cheeks gently. Instead, she leans into him and gives him what she hasn't been able to give him before: she gives him the part of her heart that will always love him.

Because this kiss isn't about lust anymore, and it's certainly not about pent-up desire. They're not trying to quench the urges they've had for each other since they first met. She's not giving in to her yearning for him; he's not finally succumbing to how much he wants her. This kiss has nothing to do with their bodies.

As his mouth moves with hers (because he's not doing this _to_ her; they're doing it together), she thinks blissfully that this is the purest and possibly most meaningful kiss she has ever experienced.

He breathes into her; she breathes into him. And all she can feel is the connection she always feels with him, that feeling of falling deeper and faster, that feeling of _exhilaration_.

(All she can feel is everything she's been denying.)

He kisses her like she is everything he ever wanted or needed, like it's all he has ever wanted to do, like he could kiss her all his life and be happy. And for a moment, as his lips keep her breathing with him and his tongue dances languidly with hers, she can see exactly what it would mean to let him love her.

And it's scary. It's fucking _terrifying_. It's overwhelming and intense and clearly the most powerful thing she will ever encounter, no matter whether she lives one lifetime or ten. It's his heart fully absorbing hers, and every part of him accepting every part of her, and the call of his soul – and hers, if she lets herself reciprocate – finally, finally being answered.

It's just the most plaintive, wrenching, beautiful love she has ever felt.

And the problem is, she honestly doesn't know whether she has the strength to love him the same way. This isn't really about Stefan. He has always been an obstacle, of course, but she knows that what she has to overcome to love Damon the way he needs her to love her is not her feelings for his brother, but her own fear. Loving him will require everything she has. She's afraid it might break her.

But as terrified as she is right now, she doesn't move away. She just holds on tighter. She just keeps kissing him.

Because she realizes that maybe, just maybe, she's meant to love him exactly the way he loves her.

…

What Elena will remember later is that neither one of them breaks the kiss.

…

A knock on the door startles them both after a few minutes, and they break apart quickly. There's no uneasiness as they jump away from each other, only sheepish laughter and blushing cheeks.

Damon ambles good-naturedly over to the door, and Elena smiles bashfully, looking at her feet. She expects the knocker to be room service, or maybe housekeeping. She asked for towels last night when they arrived, didn't she?

But the air is very, very quiet. She can hear herself breathing.

When Damon doesn't walk back toward her after a long silence, she grows fearful. She waits another moment, but still, he does not turn back to her.

She walks up behind him and asks softly, "What is it?" She thinks she knows what has him so speechless, but it's worth verifying.

Damon wordlessly hands her a letter, his eyes sliding over her face anxiously, like he does whenever he feels she might be in danger. She can already tell that this is not physical danger.

She's surprised to find that her hands are steady as she unfolds the single piece of paper.

_My dearest Elena,_

_You will be happy to hear that your beloved is safe. However, he shall not be returning to you, no matter how long you live. I hope you are well._

_Regards,  
><em>_Klaus_

It is easy enough to tell that she is fainting; black spots start to erupt behind her eyes, and she is having trouble breathing. She reaches behind her for something to hold onto, but there is nothing. She resorts instead to falling forward, onto Damon, who catches her with shaking hands.

The darkness claims her, and all she can feel is Damon.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Wednesday or Thursday.<strong>


	8. Scared of What's Behind & What's Before

**A/N: You guys remain awesome - 66 reviews! Last chapter was my best attempt at a cliffhanger. As you could probably tell, it wasn't very suspenseful…regardless, this chapter picks up where the last one ended. I'm sure you're all wondering: will Elena deal with the fact that Stefan is never coming back to her? And how will Damon cope with her reaction? Most importantly, will they even talk about the kiss? Read on to find out… **

**Only two chapters left after this one! I can't thank all of my readers enough. Your support is just mind-boggling.**

**Chapter title from "After The Storm." Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, who is far and away the kindest and most gracious person – not to mention the best editor – I have found on this site. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_I could not take the burden of both me and you.  
>It was too fast,<br>Casting love on me as if it were a spell I could not break,  
>When it was a promise I could not make.<br>But what if I was wrong?  
><em>_- "Hold On To What You Believe" by Mumford & Sons_

Damon watches Klaus' note fall from Elena's hands as if in a trance. He knows he should catch it (knows he should catch _her_), but he can't move. He's rooted to the ground, his eyes fixed on the letter that proclaims what he already knew:

_He shall not be returning to you_.

The sentence echoes in his head, an unwelcome reminder that things are not as they should be. Stefan has always returned to him. No matter how far they have wandered, no matter how much they have hated each other. They have been separated for a decade or so before, but they have always found each other in the end. The thought of his baby brother being truly lost forever…it is so wrong.

He thinks bitterly that if he had had his way, this would have all turned out differently. He and Stefan would never have fallen for the same girl in 1864. They would never have turned into vampires and started this vicious cycle of betraying each other and hurting each other and promising things would be different. They certainly would never have fallen for the same girl again.

If he had had his way, Stefan would never have sacrificed himself for him. Stefan would never have been so stupid (and noble, always noble, to a fault) as to hand himself over to the most dangerous vampire in the world.

But Damon didn't have his way. In fact, it's been a long time since he got his way when it comes to his brother. And now, they are both paying for it.

And as Elena collapses in his arms and cries soft, broken sobs into his chest, her silken cheeks damp with moisture, Damon thinks that they are both nothing without Stefan.

They are just nothing now.

…

In the darkness, the fragile layer of protection coating Damon's fretful heart falls away. His soul has been laid open, exposed. And all that's left of him is the hole Stefan carved out when he left, the hole that has slowly gotten bigger as the nerve-wracking days have inched past.

True, Elena has helped fill much of that void with her trusting smiles and eager kisses. But the hollow space still remains. The dull ache in his chest makes him feel guilty every time he so much as grins in Elena's direction. Stefan is gone. Stefan is gone, and it is his fault.

What's more, Stefan is never coming back. And that is simply too much to handle.

But he has to be strong. If only for the crying, incoherent girl shuddering in his arms, he has to grit his teeth and move on. As much as it burns and scorches, he owes it to both his brother and the girl his brother loved to hold his head high. So he simply strokes her head and murmurs soothing words.

She clings to him like she is afraid he will leave her, and he cradles her as caringly as he knows how, slowly sinking to the ground.

Finally, she has calmed down a little; her breathing has slowed, and she is not shaking quite so much. He kisses her hair and asks her gently, "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head adamantly, her hair whispering past his cheeks. "No."

He doesn't push her, even though he knows they should talk about it. They should talk about what this means – for Stefan, for her, for him, for _them_. They should talk about whether they're going to believe Klaus and abandon the search, or whether they're going to take his words with a grain of salt and keep looking. They should talk about what will happen if Stefan never comes back: will Damon leave Mystic Falls forever? Does she even _want_ him to? They should talk about –

But he won't make her talk. He's not sure whether it's his newfound compassion that slows him, or his sense of despair that makes it impossible to speak. Regardless, he cannot find the strength to say anything, and so he doesn't.

He just kisses her forehead and strokes her hair. Lately, his touch is the only thing he's been able to offer her.

And the only solace she offers in return – the only solace he needs – is her hand clasped with his.

…

It is only later, when they're on the road at last (Damon's not really sure where he's driving them), that Elena opens her bow-shaped mouth and says what they've both been wondering for the past day:

"Do you think Klaus is telling the truth?"

Damon hesitates. He doesn't want to shatter any delusions she might be clinging to, but he also doesn't want to lie to her. It will only hurt her more later, and he's been in the business of protecting her from pain ever since she slapped him and told him people die around him.

So he shrugs noncommittally. "Who knows?"

She sighs, the kind of sorrowful, hopeless sigh that hurts him, too. He can feel her pain, and he'd give anything to take it away.

And he knows somehow that he cannot mention the kiss now. They have to get all their Stefan issues out of the way before they can even think about the fact that he kissed her and she let him (the fact that she _kissed_ _him back_). He understands that, and so he keeps his mouth shut, even as words fight for release against his lips.

"So," she continues, the word only slightly unsteady (he admires her bravery, as always), "Do we keep looking, or do we give up?"

He considers his answer carefully, wondering how best to phrase this. "Well, 'Lena," he begins at last, "That really depends on you."

She tilts her head, exposing a sliver of olive skin at the base of her neck (he shivers and forces his fangs to retract). "What do you mean?"

He turns his gaze back to the road. "I don't have anyone to come back to," he explains, deciding that he shouldn't add that she's the only one he'd ever come back for anyways. "Mystic Falls isn't really my home. But it is yours. Elena, you have a life to come home to. You have people who miss you, people who –"

"You have people who miss you, too!" She argues fiercely. "Alaric and Jeremy and Caroline and…"

She trails off, biting her lip, and he knows she's thinking that those people are bereft without her, and she's certainly bereft without them. There are people in Mystic Falls who care that he's gone (he can't prevent the pang in his chest when he thinks of Alaric, for example), but she has more to lose here.

She's quiet for a long moment, obviously weighing her options. He's torn, really, torn between spending another week or more in close proximity to the girl who still isn't his or going home and having to share her with other people. Neither path is very appealing.

"Oh, Damon," she breathes suddenly, tears blooming in her eyes, "I don't think I _can_ go home."

He blinks. "Why?" He's genuinely confused.

She looks away, as if embarrassed. He waits for her to explain, but she's silent, clearly caught in the grips of some abject humiliation.

Finally, she murmurs, "Please pull over, Damon."

He considers refusing on the basis that she's really not making sense, but he doesn't much see the point of that. So he does as she asks, and then, he turns to face her, his eyes full of a concern he has never been able to will away, no matter how hard he tries.

"Why don't you think you can go home?" He probes, folding his hands in his lap so he's not tempted to touch her unnecessarily. "What is it?"

Her lower lip trembles. "I'm afraid," she admits, bowing her head.

His fingers are laced with hers before he's noticed he's moved. After all this time, it's become an unconscious movement, an impulse he can't resist.

"Why are you afraid?" He coaxes, stroking her knuckles. "You have nothing to be afraid of."

That much, at least, is true. As long as she's with him, she'll never have anything to be afraid of. He'll protect her.

Because he remembers:

_I don't mind being the bad guy. I'll make all the life and death decisions while you're busy worrying about collateral damage. I'll even let her hate me for it. But at the end of the day,_ _I'll be the one who keeps her alive_.

He meant it then, and he means it now, even if he doesn't want to be the bad guy, not anymore. (Even if Stefan is no longer around to bear witness.)

But she shakes her head slowly. "Not here I don't," she whispers.

He sits back, shocked. What the hell does she mean by that?

She doesn't seem in any rush to explain, though. She just raises her eyes and holds his gaze, smiling a little. She's fucked him up enough that he's in serious danger of interpreting her expression as meaning that she trusts him completely, because she looks so honest and open. God, this _girl_.

She shakes her head, her mouth moving in a languid rush of light and love. "I'm afraid of going home and having to tell everyone that Stefan is never coming back," she admits, tracing meaningless patterns on his palm. "I'm afraid of how different it will be without him. I'm afraid of what everyone will say when they see us, because we…"

She obviously can't finish, so he interjects helpfully, "Because we've changed?"

(It's the latest in a string of massive understatements.)

"Yes," she says assertively, grasping his hand tightly, as if she's afraid he's going to jump out the window or something. "Because we've changed. I just…I've gotten used to this, to you and me and this car –" She smiles fondly, and he feels a thrill of something he can't quite name – "And I don't think I can go home yet."

He shakes his head dumbly, taken aback. He's not entirely sure what to make of this. On one hand, she sounds like a spoiled child, accustomed to getting her way. He could accuse her of manipulating him, because he doesn't think the changes she's referring to mean as much to her as they do to him (and that's just mean of her). But on the other hand…she looks distraught enough that he knows she's telling the truth. And he's never been able to refuse her anything.

So he nods. He's not going to humor her, but he will be gentle with her. He can do that much.

"I think we have to consider the possibility that Stefan's really not coming back," he says carefully, the words burning his throat on the way out. "If we assume he's not, doesn't it make sense to go home?"

She scrunches up her nose. "It does," she acknowledges glumly. "But I don't think I'm ready to accept that."

She doesn't say anything else, and he has to look away from her. They've avoided the reality of "It's always going to be Stefan" and "I have one thing you'll never have: her respect" as deftly as they can these past few weeks, but the knowledge always rears its ugly head eventually. He wants to believe that one day she might get over his brother enough to love him, but her words confirm that that's never going to happen.

She seems to recognize that she's made a misstep, though, because she waves her hands in the air anxiously.

"No, that's not what I meant," she contradicts herself frantically. "I just meant that I loved him for so long that it's difficult to let go of him. Damon, I don't –"

She cuts herself off, and he should be angry that she's always so goddamn indecisive. But all he can hear (all he can feel) is the fact that she used the past tense.

_I loved him_.

Not "I love him" or "I'll always love him." She said "I loved him." As in, not anymore.

It's enough to brighten his day considerably.

"Loved him?" He finds himself asking. He wants to hit himself for being such a pansy, but the way he loves her makes it impossible for him to be anything but eager in this situation.

She falters almost imperceptibly. "Well," she begins, huffing an exasperated sigh.

He waits patiently. (He'll wait forever.)

She stares out the window pensively. She doesn't say anything.

He sighs in resignation. He should have known. They don't get to have a fairytale ending. In fact, it's almost worse that Stefan is never coming back. Now, in the unlikely event that Elena decides to give him a chance, he'll always wonder if she only picked him because his saint of a brother was unavailable. He doesn't want her to love him like that, but he also doesn't think he'll be able to resist her.

After a moment of waiting for her to break the silence, he pulls the car back onto the road and drives aimlessly for a while, wondering why he ever expected anything different. Stefan has always been the Golden Boy. He has no reason to believe that that will ever change, even if his brother kills 1,000 people.

But just as they pass a thick swath of trees, he hears the girl next to him let out a breath.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I just don't know."

He shouldn't smile, but smile he does.

…

They stop at a hotel for the night, as usual. They're exhausted from the rollercoaster of hope and despair that this road trip has taken them on, and they stagger into their room, dragging their feet.

They don't say much as they prepare for bed, methodically pulling on pajamas and avoiding each other's eyes and brushing their teeth side by side, their reflections too perfect together to accept.

Damon doesn't really know how to be around her tonight. He can't tell how upset she is about Stefan. Now that the shock has worn off, he can see the gears in her mind whirling: she's trying to decide what to do.

He wishes he could help her, but he senses that this is a decision she has to make on her own.

Once they are both ready to go to sleep, they lie on top of the covers, too weary to climb into bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it might light the way. He has no idea what to say, so he just wraps his fingers around hers, hoping to comfort her.

Thankfully, she sighs in contentment, squeezing his hand. They stay like that for a moment, basking in the glow that being together provides sometimes.

But her next words shock him.

"I think we should keep looking," she says, shifting slightly, enough that he can feel blood pool in his lower half.

(This is why he hates nighttime.)

"Where, though?" He probes lightly, inwardly groaning (this is the wrong decision for so many reasons). "We've already scoured most of the country, and the last hint we found of him was by Savannah. They could be anywhere by now. They could be in Europe, in Africa, even in Asia, I suppose." He pauses, raising an eyebrow. "Do you think we should fly somewhere to look for him?"

She doesn't say anything, biting her lip, and he realizes that in all her thinking about what to do, she never considered the logistics of continuing their road trip. He has no idea what else she could have spent that much time debating.

(Or maybe he does.)

Finally, she shakes her head slowly, but she's lost some of her determination. "Well, that doesn't – that doesn't matter," she stutters shakily. "We need to find him."

"Stefan's gone," Damon whispers gently, trying (and failing) to conceal how much those two words break him. "He's gone and he's never coming back."

She shrinks away from him, presumably at the raw pain in his voice. But somehow, she finds the strength to move towards him again. "I can't give up," she bites out, holding his gaze. "I _love_ him. I can't give up!"

He flinches (she's using the present tense). He sits up to look at her, hating the way tears pool in her eyes.

And then, he lashes out, because he's lost her so many times that he can't bear it anymore.

"Well, you have to!" He roars loudly, making her jump. "Stefan's not coming back. We tried our hardest, but we lost him. It's time for us to cut our losses and just move on. We've done enough. We've got to let him go."

She doesn't say anything. She looks at him for a long moment, stunned into silence.

(All he can think is that he never meant for any of this to happen.)

"I guess we'll go home then," she whispers, wiping her nose with her sleeve, an uncertain movement that leaves him aching. "I guess we'll just go home."

She sniffles quietly, and he wishes he didn't care.

…

She refuses to look at him. They're in the car all day, speeding towards home, and she won't look at him. She just stares out the window, emanating waves of hurt and fear and disappointment.

He sighs and forces himself not to think about her.

…

They're four hours from Mystic Falls when they stop at last. He would have liked to continue through the night, but his hands are slipping on the steering wheel, and her head is lolling. She might not be willing to admit it, but she needs to sleep in a warm bed tonight. And he…well, he wants to kiss her again, if he's being honest with himself.

He expects her to bring the kiss up. He doesn't know why, but he's convinced she'll broach the subject first. Granted, he should probably know better than to assume she'll actually initiate a conversation about their "understanding," but he doesn't. This is entirely new territory for him (for them both), and he doesn't know how to navigate it.

He lets her get settled, watching dispassionately as she disappears into the bathroom to do all those things girls do. He can hear her splashing water on her face, hear her softly exhaling as she stares at her reflection a moment too long.

She walks out at last with her head hung. He waits for her to say something, but she just heads straight for the bed that is still, even after all this time, too goddamn small.

She stands awkwardly by the foot of the bed, looking at him imploringly. He knows why she hasn't turned off the lights yet; he's supposed to climb into bed first and invite her to sleep in his arms. That's what he does every night. He's deviated from their routine tonight, and it's thrown her.

He's too tired to fight her, so he wordlessly nods. She gives the tiniest sigh of relief, and he feels slightly mollified. He beckons her towards him and follows the steps she so ferociously laid out for him the night they found those bodies in the meadow.

And then, without warning, the words are rushing out of him, and he doesn't think he wants to stop them.

"So I guess we're just going to pretend it never happened?" He asks as they slip beneath the covers, his arms automatically going around her. He wishes he sounded more accusatory, but the words are matter-of-fact; nothing about the way she handles the bitter realities of them surprises him anymore.

He's ready for her innocent "Pretend what never happened?" But it never comes.

She simply shakes her head and blinks up at him. "Of course we're not going to pretend it never happened," she says evenly. He can sense how desperate she is despite her steadiness, how fervently she's trying to hide the lie in her voice. "We just have to figure out what we're going to tell everyone back at home about Stefan and everything, and then we can –"

"And then we can what?" He cuts her off, scrambling out of the bed they share. He doesn't want to have this conversation when she's nestled into him.

She jumps out of bed, too, and he comes towards her, barreling past the thin walls she consistently puts between them (she starts to shake, and God, this will never work).

She falters. "And then we can –"

"And then we can _what_?" He repeats cruelly, cornering her, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Hmm? And then we can _talk_ about it? Yeah, like that's ever going to happen."

He scoffs, and she glares at him, pushing him backwards with a well-timed shove that's meant to hurt.

"If you think for even a second that I would treat you like that," she spits, flipping her hair so fiercely that it's easy to forget all the times she's treated him exactly like that, "Then you don't know me at all. We'll talk about it, Damon. It's just – This is difficult for me, okay?"

He stares at her for a long moment in which he debates whether he has the balls to relinquish her for good. Because seriously? She seriously has the nerve to tell him that this is difficult for _her_? Who the hell does she think she is?

"This is difficult for you?" He echoes hotly, hating her.

She nods hesitantly.

"Actually, you're right," he says calmly, sweeping his hair off his forehead (cursing her for the way her eyes follow his hand). "This must be difficult for you. In fact, I can't imagine how hard it must be to have someone like me love you. I really can't imagine how much it must suck to have to ignore the way I feel about you. Yeah, that's _really_ got to be hard for you."

Her jaw drops, shock spiraling across her reddening face, but he's too far gone to stop.

"While we're at it, let's talk about how much it must suck to have two men in love with you," he exclaims angrily, hitting the wall beside him hard enough that she flinches. "Let's talk about the fact that we kissed and you're running away from it because you're scared."

"Of _course_ I'm scared," she interjects suddenly, breathing hard now. "The way you love me is so much bigger than me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

He stares at her in disbelief. "Oh, I don't know," he says bitterly (he should probably be more understanding, but he's reached the limits of his patience). "Maybe not _run_ _away_ from it?"

She shakes her head staunchly, and he can't believe they're having this conversation.

"It was too much," she admits, averting her eyes as if she's embarrassed of her cowardice. "Everything I was feeling, everything _you_ were feeling…" She shrugs, rolling her shoulders awkwardly, as if to protect herself from him (although they both know that's a losing battle). "It was too much. I couldn't take it."

"That's what this is about?" He asks loudly, sure he's misunderstanding her. "You're afraid because of how much I love you?"

She lets out a long exhale, slowly raising her eyes until she can look at him comfortably. He expects to see regret and pain in her gaze, but all he sees is clarity, the sense that she finally knows what she wants.

(He wonders if that's too optimistic.)

"Yes," she says softly. "I'm afraid."

A part of him comprehends what a monumental step this is for her. For once, she's actually admitting that she does have feelings for him. For once, she's giving him an actual reason why her denial has been so complete and heartbreaking for so long.

But it doesn't feel like enough.

"Well," he begins slowly, unsure of what he's supposed to do with his hands right now (he can't tell if she wants him to touch her), "You're a fucking idiot. You know that, right?"

She smiles a little. He searches the curve of her mouth, certain it must be bittersweet, but it's almost…relieved.

A moment later, he understands why.

"Okay," she says with finality, walking briskly back over to the bed. "Now that that's taken care of, we can get some sleep. We should wake up early so we can be home for lunch. That way –"

She keeps talking, something about calling Bonnie to let her know they're coming home, something about visiting the cemetery before they go to her house, something about how convenient it is that Alaric is Jeremy's legal guardian now. Her mouth is moving rapidly, but he doesn't hear anything she's saying.

Did she really just proclaim that they've taken care of the kiss? What utter and complete bullshit.

It is _so_ far from taken care of.

Just before she moves to pull the covers up over her lithe body, he picks her up and flattens her against the wall. He's so angry that that expression about seeing red is true.

"We kissed, Elena," he reminds her, hoping he can convince her that she can't chalk it up to hormones and their attraction or whatever. She has to face the reality of what's between them eventually, and it might as well be now.

She looks at him strangely. "I know, Damon," she promises him slowly, cocking her head, as if she's worried about his sanity.

"And it wasn't a pity kiss," he continues as if he hasn't heard her, "or a goodbye kiss, or a fake kiss. You have nothing to hide behind anymore. You _asked_ me to kiss you. And then you kissed me back. You can't pretend that you don't feel something for me anymore. Goddamn it, Elena, I won't let you!"

She winces, struggling to get free of him. But he doesn't move; he doesn't let her move.

"I'm not pretending," she argues. "I just –"

"You just still want Stefan," he finishes. "Yeah, I get it."

"That's not it!" She exclaims angrily, pushing him away from her and putting her hands on her hips. He hates that he notices how hot she looks right now, but damn, the girl is a firecracker.

"Well then, what is it?" He explodes, throwing his hands up in the air. "Because I'm running out of excuses for you. I just don't understand why you refuse to admit that you feel it, too."

She glares at him. "Let's think about this," she says, crossing her arms. "From the moment I met you, you've turned my world upside down."

He can tell that she has a long speech planned out – her words have an air of rehearsal, as if she's practiced them in front of the mirror – but already, he's dumbfounded. He's turned _her_ world upside down? That doesn't make sense. Obviously she's completely changed him, but for her to concede the same is staggering.

"You were a sadistic killer," she says, "And I was terrified of you. You were such a threat to me and Stefan, but at the same time, there was a part of me that knew it was all an act."

He sucks in a breath, dropping his gaze suddenly; he can't look at her when she's being this honest. Even back then, she saw right through him.

How could he ever deserve this magnificent creature?

(He couldn't.)

"And then you started to reform," she continues, her voice softening, as if these memories are infinitely precious. "You started working with me and Stefan, protecting me, actually caring. Hell, you even escorted me to Miss Mystic Falls when Stefan went out of control."

At this, he has to turn away from her. Remembering that time is painful, because he was getting closer to her, closer and closer to the part of himself that Katherine destroyed. And he ruined it.

"And then," she pushes on, clearly fighting past the tears in her voice, "Just when I thought you'd changed, you killed Jeremy. And God, I wanted to hate you."

He's cruel and selfish and generally a horrible person, but he focuses on the fact that she didn't say she hated him. Only that she wanted to. And somehow, that makes all the difference in the world.

She lets out a shaky breath, trembling. "But I didn't. Because you kept saving me, and saying those things you say, and I just…how am I supposed to decide what to feel about you?" Her words are angry now, hot and fierce, begging him for an answer he doesn't have. "You convince me that you're a good guy, that you _love_ me, that you'll always choose me. Remember that, Damon?"

He hangs his head. How could he forget that?

"So you say something like that," she says, her voice full of venom, "And then you go and you force me to drink your blood. You take away my choice; you disrespect me. So then I have to reevaluate who I think you are _again_. And then…" She trails off, shaking her head sadly.

"And then, you almost died," she whispers, her voice breaking (he's shocked by the amount of pain in the words), "And I couldn't bear it. I couldn't stand the idea of you not existing. It just didn't make sense."

He sucks in a breath. Where the hell is this coming from?

"So I kissed you," she continues, almost matter-of-factly, "Because you were so _good_. And everything changed. It all just changed. I don't know how to cope with who you are anymore, Damon. You've been so wonderful this entire road trip, and it's messing me up."

He blinks in confusion.

But she barrels on, determined to get this all out before he stops her.

"So yeah, we kissed again," she says, her cheeks flushed with something he doesn't dare identify as hope, "And it was _perfect_. But it was also scary. Because someone who used to kill people just for kicks shouldn't be able to kiss me like that."

He raises his eyebrows, about to interrupt her (to clarify that the person who can kiss her like that has always been hidden in him somewhere). But she's talking too quickly.

"Do you have any idea how exhausting it is?" She asks him urgently. "Do you have any idea how long it's taken me just to understand who you are? It takes so much out of me, Damon."

"I never asked you to –" He begins through clenched teeth.

"Never asked me to what?" She pushes, shaking her head almost ruefully, as if he's disappointed her. "To love you? Yeah, you did."

He takes an unintentional step backward, astonished. He's never thought about it like that. It's never occurred to him that while he's been fighting his feelings for her, she's been fighting her feelings for him just as hard – if not harder. And he hasn't made it easy for her. He's confused her, blindsided her; he's forced her to reevaluate who she thinks he is time and time again. No wonder she can't figure out her own heart.

But now she's looking at him with a sort of tenderness, and the past doesn't seem to matter so much.

"So you want me to be honest about my feelings for you?" She asks gently, walking towards him with all the grace of an Egyptian queen (his mouth goes dry). "Well, here's your honesty: I don't know how I feel about you. I've never known."

He shakes his head. Now he knows how she feels whenever he makes tremendous declarations about loving her. He feels overwhelmed, and exposed, and _cared_ about. He can't decide whether it's pleasant.

She comes to a stop in front of him, reaching up to touch his cheek. Her eyes are warm; he holds still.

"It's not a lie, and it's not a deflection. I honestly don't know. You change and you kiss me and you make stupid mistakes and you _break_ _my heart_, over and over again," she whispers, tracing his cheekbones with her fingers. "So when I tell you that I'm scared, Damon, I'm telling the truth. You and I both know this has nothing to do with Stefan. I'm just _terrified_."

He wants to hate her for saying all this. It's false hope, really. She's never going to love him, at least not the way they both need her to. She's never going to give herself to him. He wants to hate her for pretending that someday, things might be different.

But he doesn't hate her. (He doesn't think he can.)

"You and me..." She trails off, her eyes flooded with wonder. "It could be _everything_. And that's scary."

His jaw drops. What the _hell_?

"I know I don't have the right to ask you to wait," she says, brushing her lips across his cheek (he can't look away from her probing eyes), "And I won't pretend it will be easy. But I'm asking you to wait anyways. I'm not ready now. Please, tell me you'll wait for me."

She looks at him pleadingly, her fingers cupping his cheek, and he loves her more than he ever has before. Of course he'll wait for her. There's simply no other option.

He wonders what he would have done if he had known that this would happen – that the murders and the broken brotherhood and the sacrifice would happen. Would he still have come back to Mystic Falls? Would he still have looked after her, protected her, cared about her?

Would he still have loved her?

But that's not even worth debating. No matter how much he thinks about it, no matter how many different ways he approaches it…he knows the answer to that question will always be the same:

Yes. Yes, he would still have loved her. He has figured out by now that his love for her does not depend on the circumstances or the time or the place. His love for her depends on nothing; it just is.

He smiles affectionately. He caresses her cheeks, holding her face in his hands. She looks up at him questioningly (like she did when he made her forget the only words that ever mattered), and he nods slightly.

"Of course I'll wait for you," he promises, stroking a line from her temple to her jaw. "And you want to know why?"

She nods.

He smiles again. "Because I thought I would never love again after Katherine," he whispers, kissing her forehead reverently. "But I was wrong. Now, I know that I will never love again after you. It will always be you."

He means it. God, does he mean it.

And the moment should be romantic, a memory to bring out when all else is gray and dreary. But there is no acceptance in her eyes; there is only fear.

He knows what's about to happen before he even registers the way her gaze darts about the room, searching for the easiest escape route (i.e. the most likely to get her past him without bodily injury). He barely has enough time to react, and he can only stare at her, gripping her arms to hold her in place.

"Don't run away, Elena," he begs, anguish splintering his face. "For God's sake, Elena, don't _run away from me_."

But she does run away. She flings open the hotel room door and runs off into the night.

He thinks sadly that he should have known.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know what you thought! Update Sunday.<strong>


	9. My Heart Shall Bleed Right Again

**A/N: Sorry for the delay – my power was out for a few hours. I hope everyone living on the East Coast is safe and unharmed. **

**And now…here we are at the penultimate chapter. It's been a long, awesome journey, and I feel like it's important to stop and thank all of you for reading. It's meant the world to me. Damon and Elena represent true love to me, and I know it's the same for most of you who are reading this story. Thank you so much, for everything.**

**This is a long, long, **_**long**_** chapter. But there was simply no way of stopping this before the end. You'll see why. Only one more chapter to go!**

**Chapter title from "The Banjolin Song." Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, to whom I can't even begin to describe how grateful I am; she has been helpful, kind, compassionate, funny and wonderful. Thanks to all of you, so much, for reading. Please enjoy.**

_In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die  
><em>_Where you invest your love, you invest your life.  
><em>_- "Awake My Soul" by Mumford & Sons_

Elena runs blindly through the hotel hallway, her heart pounding so loudly that she's terrified that Damon will come tearing down the carpeted floors in search of her.

But there's only silence behind her.

She knows that she should go back. Running away from Damon has never solved her problems, and it certainly doesn't get rid of the part of her heart that _needs_ him. And after everything that's happened between them, she owes it to him to be brave.

But she's so afraid of being with him. How would they spend their days? Who would he be if they were legitimately together? Could she ever be as open and comfortable and honest with him as he is with her? Would he revert to who he used to be, when he killed for pleasure and relished making his brother's life miserable? Would she turn for him? What would her _friends_ say?

She knows that none of those questions matter, though. The choice of whether to love Damon doesn't depend on the extenuating circumstances. When it's real, you can't walk away. And God, this is more real than anything she's ever experienced before.

She's in the middle of the lobby when she realizes this. She's staring at the front desk when the knowledge that she's made a mistake she's likely to regret for the rest of her life washes over her.

And she ignores the stares people throw in her direction when suddenly she sprints back to the room.

She bolts into the closest elevator, tapping her foot impatiently as the floors creep past. Then she bursts out of the elevator and takes off towards her destiny.

She doesn't even pause to think about what she's going to say; she just barrels through the door.

Damon looks up when she comes in, blinking in surprise. He rearranges his features slightly; he's trying to pretend that he hasn't been waiting for her. His eyes glaze over with tenderness, but he's clenching his fists. It's easy to tell that he's resisting the urge to pull her into his arms. He looks so…_happy_.

(Happy that she's come back to him.)

And the realization hits her like a freight train, hard and new and ever so important:

She loves him.

Of course she loves him. How could she not? He's _Damon_. He's moody and he's sarcastic and he always knows how to make her laugh when nothing is funny. He's wounded and brave and loyal and the most protective man she's ever met. He's honest and he's hopeful and he loves her with everything he has and then some. Of _course_ she loves him. She's felt so many different things for him, but this is by far the most powerful.

She suppresses the urge to laugh when he stares at her blankly, clearly confused as to why she hasn't explained herself yet. He's completely unaware of the transformation she's just undergone.

But she can't tell him just yet. She has to tread carefully here. He's wary of her now, wary of her penchant for running away every time she accidentally reveals too much. If she tells him she loves him now, he won't believe her. It might even hurt him, and she cannot bear the thought of breaking him further.

So she just smiles at him. It's a warm smile, the kind of smile she's rarely dispensed over the past few months.

He seems unsure of what to do with that smile. His fists clench and unclench; he shakes his head, then nods. Confusion flits across his face.

"I messed up," she says softly, crossing the room and covering his hands with hers. "I really, really messed up."

He flinches, and she worries that she's said something wrong; she worries that she's crossed the line they pretend isn't there. Because his mouth is slightly open, and his eyes are wide and scared, and he's looking at her like she just announced she was pregnant or something.

She frowns and withdraws her hands, taking a reluctant step away from him.

But he hauls her in, gripping her hands tightly. "Yes," he whispers. "You did."

She swallows, unable to stop herself from looking at his lips, which are hovering tantalizingly over hers. His lips are the part of his body that have always haunted her. They're the lips that told her he wanted it to be real, the lips that smirked at her when she told him not to do his eye thing, the lips that have touched hers three times now: once against her will, once because he was dying and she couldn't help herself, and once…once that changed her irrevocably.

Once that forced her to come to grips with everything she feels for him.

She lets her eyes linger on the curve of his cheekbones, lets her gaze trace the hollows beneath his electric, mesmerizing eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs sincerely, loving him so much for the way he stares at her, with such ineffable passion that her chest expands. "I shouldn't have run away."

"No, you shouldn't have," he agrees, still clutching her fingers like he can't bear to let her go. "But you came back."

She nods vigorously. "But I came back."

He looks at her for a long moment. She doesn't move.

(She'll always come back to him.)

…

In the end, she decides that it's time to go home. She shoots him a pointed, nuanced look as they prepare for bed, then nods purposefully. He smiles, bittersweet, and kisses her forehead.

She knows he understands. What's more, she knows that this is the right thing to do.

As much as it pains her to admit, it's pointless to look for Stefan any longer. He's gone. Even if he comes back in ten years, even if he comes back tomorrow…too much has changed. She will not welcome him with open arms. She will not look at him the same way, not after she has seen the evidence of the monster he has become.

(Not after she has accepted how she feels about Damon.)

So she climbs into the passenger seat of Damon's blue antique Camaro the next morning, rolling down her window like she has every day for the past six months. She laces her fingers through his, squeezing his hand.

She says, "Let's go home, Damon."

And so they do.

…

The first thing Elena sees when they pull into her driveway is a string of red and green lights strewn across the porch.

She lets out an awed breath, taking in the reindeer perched in the grass, the tree dripping with ornaments in the window. There's no snow covering the ground, but that's not uncommon for this time of year; the coldest weather is yet to come.

It's beautiful, and her eyes roam the twinkling bulbs clinging to the stairs as she murmurs rapturously, "Oh."

Damon opens her door, offering her a hand. He's grinning, joy in his eyes. He pulls her towards him as she sways on her feet, too focused on the decorations to concentrate on stupid things like keeping her balance.

"Oh my goodness," she breathes, walking unsteadily to the front door (Damon's hand is firmly on her arm, supporting her like always). "It's Christmas."

He nods, gently nudging her up the steps. "Yes," he says, kissing her temple. "It's Christmas."

She knocks on the familiar door in a daze, holding back tears at the sight of a wreath. She completely forgot about the approaching holiday, probably because she hasn't properly celebrated Christmas since her parents died; after their funeral, most holidays fell on the wayside. Jenna always had too much on her plate to buy a Thanksgiving turkey or remember to find a tree in time, and then she –

Elena swallows hard, reminding herself to just breathe, to relax and simply live in the moment. She's home now. All the bad stuff is behind her.

Besides, she tells herself sternly, it's _Christmas_. It's the most wonderful time of the year. No one is allowed to be unhappy on Christmas, not even the infamously cranky Damon Salvatore.

She can't stop herself from grinning when the door opens and it's Jeremy standing there, taller than the last time she saw him, almost four months ago. His face is full of warmth, and he immediately folds her into his arms, his grip firm and loving. She starts to cry, hot, happy tears.

She's _home_.

Jeremy releases her after a moment, smiling widely. He doesn't say anything, and she's glad. She doesn't want to talk about everything that's happened since her birthday. She just wants to revel in the warmth of being in a place where no one wants to kill her, where it's easy to forget that her vampire ex-boyfriend has been off on a murderous rampage for half the year.

Jeremy reaches for Damon, who smiles broadly and pulls him into his arms. Elena smiles wryly. Their friendship will probably always astound her, considering that not even a year and a half ago, Damon killed him.

Normally, the thought of that horrible night would send a sharp ache through her chest. But she's at peace with everything that has happened. She meant what she said to Damon on his deathbed. She does forgive him.

And then, Caroline's arms are around her, and the past doesn't matter anymore, because she is home and everything will be okay.

Caroline holds onto Elena tightly, her waves of yellow hair smelling like soap and sunshine. She doesn't even register that the blonde is crying until she feels tears soaking her t-shirt.

Caroline lets go after a long moment punctuated by soft sniffles, holding her at arms' length. She looks much the same as always, and her bright smile warms Elena's heart. It's comforting to know that even six months cannot change her best friend much.

"Are you really coming home for good?" Caroline asks hopefully. "You're not going to leave again?"

Elena offers her a watery smile. "Yeah, we're back for good," she reassures her. "We're not leaving again."

(She wonders when the couples "we" became part of her vocabulary.)

Caroline grins and envelops Elena in another bone-crushing hug. The vampire often forgets how strong she is, but right now, Elena doesn't mind. She's missed being hugged like this: wholly and freely, with the sort of natural abandon that only years of friendship can ingrain.

Her eyes flutter open, and there Bonnie is, approaching them with a smile. Trios are difficult, and they haven't always been the best of friends to each other. But somehow, the supernatural has strengthened their already unbreakable bond.

Caroline doesn't release Elena; Bonnie just hugs her, too, holding her tightly. And there they stand, the three girls who have managed to weather so much change and heartbreak and devastation.

(The three girls who will always be friends.)

Elena starts sobbing. She's so happy to be home that at first, the tears don't make sense. But she supposes she's been scared and unsure for longer than she can remember, and these two girls have been there for her through it all. She feels so cared for, so _loved_, and it's enough to make her vow never to neglect this friendship.

At last, the three girls break apart. Elena takes a deep breath, smiling bravely, then promptly bursts into tears again.

Bonnie and Caroline exchange worried looks.

"Oh my god, you poor thing!" Caroline exclaims, squeezing Elena's hand; she looks at Bonnie for help. "Is she okay?" She turns back to Elena, her blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?"

Elena smiles fondly. "It's like the first day of school all over again," she muses aloud, remembering that day easily (it was also the day she met Stefan, but maybe that doesn't matter so much anymore).

"What can I say?" Caroline says, smirking like the old Caroline, the Caroline who could collect dozens of facts about new guys between periods. "I'm still a teenage girl."

Elena laughs, loud and free.

"Oh, 'Lena," Bonnie says sympathetically. "How are you doing with everything?"

Elena shoots a casual, offhand glance in Damon's direction (he's currently engaged in a an affectionate reunion with Alaric).

"I'm okay. It's just…so much has changed between us, you know?" She explains haltingly, biting her lip. "Basically I think I want to be with him, and I don't know how to tell him."

She didn't mean to reveal that, not even to her best friends. But she's been holding that inside for a day now, and it's painful. Her love for him is powerful, much more powerful than she expected. She doesn't have the strength to keep it to herself much longer.

"Well _that's_ certainly a new development," Bonnie exclaims shakily.

Elena smiles, deliberately ignoring the shock in her best friends' eyes. Her revelation certainly came as a surprise to her at first, but by now it's just not a big deal.

"And what with me giving up on Stefan –"

"You're giving up on Stefan?" Bonnie and Caroline ask simultaneously.

Elena cocks her head. "I didn't mention that?"

Bonnie and Caroline exchange knowing looks.

"No," Caroline says slowly, holding Elena's hand tighter, "You didn't mention that. You told us about Klaus' note, but you didn't tell us that you had officially given up on Stefan. That's a big deal, 'Lena."

Elena nods fiercely. "I know," she promises, tears welling in her eyes again. "It's just…"

Bonnie and Caroline wait expectantly, and she wonders how to explain to them how she got to this point. How can she tell them that she started grieving Stefan the day he left? How can she articulate that the longer he's been gone, the easier it's become to accept that he's never coming back? How can she explain that now she understands that they were never really honest with each other?

(That they were never really _right_ for each other?)

She swallows apprehensively. "It's just that it's been months," she says, "And I've had time to come to terms with him being gone. It didn't feel real for a while, but he's gone. He's really gone."

Bonnie looks at her curiously. "You don't sound upset."

Elena shrugs. "Like I said, it's been months," she explains, wiping her moist eyes. "I loved him, and now it's over."

"Well, sweetie," Caroline murmurs, her voice warm and kind, "As awesome as that is, you might be in denial. A lot has happened since he moved here. It can't be that easy to just forget it." She pauses, confusion flickering across her face. "Can it?"

Elena shakes her head vehemently. "No," she agrees, feeling very tired all of a sudden, as if she's made so many mistakes that she can't take back (and maybe she has), "It's not. I haven't forgotten him. I've just moved on."

Her words settle in the air, contentious and provocative. To their credit, Bonnie and Caroline don't even look at each other. The question goes unspoken:

_And Damon_?

"And Damon…" Elena begins, awe flooding her voice. "It's still complicated. Less so now, though, I think. I mean, I think I –"

"You love him," Caroline finishes in wonder. Her eyes are round and excited, like they are whenever someone brings her a particularly juicy piece of gossip.

"Oh my God," Bonnie says, and Elena gets the sense that her hand would have flown to her mouth if it weren't already clutching Caroline's fingers for support. "I mean, I guess I saw this coming, but still. Wow."

Elena waves them off impatiently. "The point is, I have no idea how to convince him that I mean it," she continues, ignoring Caroline's dropped jaw. "I don't know what to do. I've hurt him so much. He's never going to believe me."

"Wait a moment," Caroline pleads, putting up a hand. "Hold up. You love Damon now? How did that happen? Last time we saw you, you were basically fighting your feelings for him. I didn't expect you to change your mind so fast."

Elena smiles. It's the same gentle, longing smile she always smiles when she thinks of Damon now.

"I don't think I changed my mind," she explains, realizing as she says it that it's true; it's not that much of a 180, because the feelings were always there. "I think I just realized that I was fooling myself. And now that I'm being completely honest about how I feel about him, it's so obvious. I've been in denial for a long time."

Caroline nods slowly, as if this explanation makes complete sense.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Bonnie asks quietly, her eyes flooded with genuine interest. Oddly enough, she doesn't seem repulsed by the idea of her best friend and the vampire she hates together.

Elena's eyebrows knit together. "I'm not entirely sure yet," she admits honestly. "But enough of me. What's going on in your lives?"

She really wants to know; she's been away from normality long enough that she's aching for frivolity. She wants to hear all about love triangles and catfights and rumors.

Bonnie and Caroline glance at each other grudgingly, as if they don't think they've exhausted the subject of Elena and Damon yet. But finally, Caroline turns back to Elena, smiles happily, and launches into an animated description of her latest run-in with Tyler.

Elena listens to every single one of Caroline's explanations about why she and Tyler can't seem to get their act together. She listens to Bonnie ramble on about her brother and how much she loves him (even if it's slightly disturbing). She enjoys this girl talk, she really does.

But as she leads her best friends to her living room and takes a seat on her favorite threadbare couch, as she pulls her knees up to her chest and plasters an enthusiastic smile on her face…she's only thinking this:

What does it mean that it doesn't hurt that Stefan's gone?

What does it mean that right now, she misses Damon more?

She doesn't know the answer to either of those questions, and that's scary.

…

The day passes in a delightful blur, as if everything is speeding by and Elena is frozen, enthralled by the Christmas lights and the sight of all of her friends gathered in the same place, safe, unharmed andhappy.

That, she thinks as she helps Alaric skin potatoes for lunch, is a miracle. Everyone is so _happy_. They've all been through so much – they've all _lost_ so much – and yet here they stand, stronger than ever.

She thought that the last six months would break them, but she finds that it's quite the opposite.

They're a family now, and it's beautiful.

…

Night has just begun to fall when Alaric strides into the kitchen and says teasingly, "You know, it's Christmas Eve. I think you can eat that cookie you've been eyeing for the past hour."

Elena gives a startled laugh. "Well, I have to leave it for Santa, now don't I?" she asks innocently, a mischievous smile creeping onto her face.

He laughs, too, then walks over to her and pulls her into a hug. She leans into him, feeling exquisitely grateful that he came into her life. Things could have gone in an entirely different direction without him.

(He's a part of the puzzle now.)

"I'm sorry Stefan is gone," he murmurs as he pulls back (she swallows a sob; he's caught her off guard). "You might not have loved him by the end, but it still must hurt. I'm just…I'm really sorry, you know? He didn't deserve this. And you definitely didn't. I'm…I'm sorry, Elena."

She nods jerkily. There's something about Alaric that always brings out the child in her, the part of her that is small and vulnerable and afraid. He's only a few years older than her, but he has somehow become a parental figure to her. She saw him and Jenna as a unit, protecting and caring for her and Jeremy. And Jenna –

"I'm sorry, too," Elena whispers, holding Alaric's gaze even though her eyes are burning with tears, "About Jenna. I never meant for her to get involved in all this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Alaric nods. "I know, Elena," he says, offering her the carefully decorated cookie (Caroline's work, of course). "I know."

They both stand there for a long moment, remembering the woman who used to smoke pot, the woman who decided that if she were going to die, she would do it while fighting for something bigger than her.

Elena feels like they've come full circle. It may be terrifying and sad, but at least it's an ending. And now that they have ended, they can begin again.

There's something strangely comforting about that.

…

Christmas dinner is lively and rowdy. They all talk over each other, passing the mashed potatoes and the roast turkey as they yell across the table, futilely trying to get a word in. It's a garbled mix of conversation and laughter, and no one makes any sense. Elena thinks it's lovely.

Bonnie and Jeremy hold hands coyly, Caroline grins brighter than the lights, Alaric says grace while doing his best to keep a straight face (he doesn't succeed), and Elena plays footsie with Damon.

She hasn't played footsie since she was 15, when she dated a running back and went on more double dates than she cares to remember. But she ends up sitting across from Damon, and her legs intertwine with his almost of their own accord.

He shoots her a warning glance, his eyes dark and admonishing. She knows she should shrink away from the fire in his gaze, but she's having too much fun. So she knocks his foot lightly, again and again until he gives in.

She knows she shouldn't be tempting him like this. She shouldn't be taking advantage of his attraction to her (shouldn't be acting on her attraction to him). But it's _Christmas Eve_. Her inhibitions have vanished completely.

And so they play footsie, and it's playful and exhilarating, and Elena catches a glimpse of their future.

There will be days of tension and danger, when powerful vampires will be after them, when they'll make passionate promises to never leave each other's side, when they'll kiss each other fiercely, like it might be the last time. She'll relish those days, she can tell already.

But there will also be days of laughter and sunshine, days when they'll dance for hours just because they can, when they'll make love as the sun rises, when they'll sneak onto the Eiffel Tower and sing at the top of their lungs, when they'll have a heated debate about the best way to make a perfectly charred grilled cheese sandwich. There'll be days when they light up and sparkle, days when the world is their oyster and they are partners in crime, living their lives to the fullest. Those are the days that will make it all worth it, because those are the days that will remind her that he brightens her like no one else can.

She smiles as she thinks about this, and he looks stunned. But he quickly recovers, at least enough to dazzle her with a genuine smile of his own. It's beautiful, but then, she knew it would be.

(Everything about him is beautiful.)

She goes back to her food as if nothing has changed, inwardly squealing when she feels the welcome pressure of Damon's foot on hers. They have never been able to resist each other, not even when they should; now is no exception.

By this time, they're heartily digging into apple pie. And then, the doorbell rings.

They all look at each other, the same worried expressions mirrored on their faces. Everyone they love is here; who could be at the door? They're not naïve enough to think Klaus will deliver Stefan to them tonight, so maybe it could be a new vampire…

Caroline jumps up quickly, color rising high in her cheeks. "I'll get it," she exclaims, running off to the door as if she cannot wait another moment, her silken waves cascading behind her.

Elena scrunches up her nose in confusion, wondering whom Caroline could possibly want to see so badly.

But then she hears Caroline's soft exhale, a breath full of hope and bitter agony, as if she's been in pain for longer than she can admit, and Elena knows exactly who's arrived.

"I love you, Car," Tyler blurts out without prompting, and everyone is holding their breath, listening to a conversation they shouldn't be privy to. "I should have said it before, and I'm sorry I didn't. I just don't care anymore that you're a vampire and I'm a werewolf. I love you, and that's all there is to it."

They don't hear anything after that, and Elena smiles. She loves moments like this, when everything comes together just right.

Tyler and Caroline start to walk over to the table, and everyone busies themselves with eating, trying to pretend that they haven't been listening to the private conversation for the last three minutes. But neither half of the newly minted couple seems to notice. In fact, Caroline's eyes light up as she trots back to her seat, her hand wrapped around Tyler's.

Elena smiles wider. Caroline deserves to be happy.

A part of her aches, though. Why can't she be happy, too?

Her eyes involuntarily flit to Damon's, and she finds that he's looking at her, his gaze unreadable. She has the strangest feeling that he knows exactly what she's thinking. She holds his gaze, hoping she can communicate that they need to take their chance before it's too late. He gives no indication that he understands, but he doesn't look away either.

(Neither of them ever looks away anymore.)

…

After they've cleared the table, they all sit in the living room, telling stories and making jokes like nothing has changed. The air flutters with the lazy humming of conversation between people who love each other unconditionally. Nothing of importance is said, but Elena knows that she'll always remember this night.

And as she sits on the couch in her flannel pajamas, cradling a warm mug of eggnog in her hands, Bonnie and Caroline on either side of her, her eyes lock with Damon's. He smiles at her, and she knows that she doesn't ever want to forget this.

(She doesn't ever want to forget _him_.)

…

As the night draws to a close, the house begins to empty.

Caroline and Tyler are the first to go, the former hugging Elena tightly and whispering that her mother will kill her if she doesn't make curfew, the latter clapping Damon on the back and apologizing, months too late, for biting him the night of the sacrifice. Bonnie's next, giving Damon an uncharacteristically warm smile and telling Elena she loves her. Alaric follows soon after, kissing Elena's forehead, hugging Damon without embarrassment, and trudging up the stairs to Jenna's old room. Jeremy scampers up the stairs, too, calling out, "I'm glad you guys are home. Merry Christmas!"

And then, only Elena and Damon are left, looking at each other with a vague sense of discomfort.

Elena doesn't know why, but she expects Damon to stay with her tonight. He has his own house, but she's grown so used to his warm weight next to her that it doesn't even occur to her that he might not head to bed with her.

But when the clock strikes midnight, only a few minutes after Jeremy has disappeared into his bedroom, Damon says, "Elena, I have to go home."

She looks at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. "You have to –" She shakes her head, sure she's heard him wrong. "You have to go home? You're leaving me?"

He sighs. "There are things I have to take care of," he explains cryptically, avoiding her eyes like he does whenever he's lying (he does it so rarely that she can always tell). "I'll be back in the morning, I promise."

She nods curtly. She could push him on the subject, but she knows she shouldn't. This is his way of asking for space. She sure as hell doesn't want to give it to him, but it's what he wants.

He touches her cheek briefly, his eyes inexplicably sad. "Goodnight, Elena."

She hates that it sounds like goodbye.

…

In the middle of the night, she drives to the Boarding House.

Mostly she goes to see him because she hasn't slept by herself in months. The sensation of lying in a half-empty bed is alien, and she tosses and turns for hours, blindly reaching out to the side of the bed where Damon normally pulls her into his arms. She knows Jeremy is breathing steadily only footsteps away, but she feels very, very alone.

(Somehow, Damon fills every hole in her heart.)

Finally, she gives up. She promised herself that she would give him all the time and space he needs, but she can't. She's spent so long suppressing her feelings for him that now that she's accepted them, she's finding it difficult to pretend that everything is the same between them.

So she drives to the Boarding House and she knocks on his door (it's not Stefan's door anymore, and that doesn't hurt as much as she used to think it should), and she doesn't let herself consider the possibility that he might turn her away.

The door swings open, and there he is: the man who only two years ago, she was trying so hard to find reasons to hate. All she can think is that she has to make this right. She has to show him that she's really in this.

Countless words threaten to spill from her lips, promises of _You're it for me_ and _Who you are is beautiful to me_. But she's literally speechless.

He doesn't ask her why she's here; he doesn't say anything at all. She knows he's quiet because he's hiding from her. His guard is up, probably because he expects her to strike him down like she always does. He even has that cool, bored look she hates so much on his face, as if at any moment he'll decide that she's not worth his time and walk away.

(But she knows that if either of them could walk away, they would have long ago.)

She asks him softly, "Can I come in?"

He fixes her with cold, disinterested eyes, but steps aside to let her through. She ignores his aloofness and brushes by him deliberately, letting her hand graze his. She relishes the way his fingers involuntarily curl around hers.

She can feel the heat of his eyes on her back, and she spins around to face him, absorbing the way he's standing, all stoic resistance and buried desire. She'd like to jump his bones and talk about her feelings later, but she suspects he wouldn't take that well.

"I couldn't sleep tonight," she offers lamely, her voice dropping off at the end. It's a banal thing to say, she knows, and it's a horrible excuse. It's true, but it's not the real reason she came out here at three in the morning.

(It's also the only reason she's brave enough to say.)

He still doesn't say anything, instead simply leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. She swallows hard, paralyzed by the flawless lines of his body. She wants to communicate to him that his presence dissolves her courage, but that's just the problem. She _can't_ express herself around him.

But she tries anyways, taking a deep breath and holding his gaze. "I came because I couldn't sleep," she repeats, walking towards him with her arms outstretched (she doesn't care how needy she seems), "And you were the only one I wanted to talk to." She looks down at her upturned palms, color flooding her cheeks. "So I got to thinking about why that was, and I realized that –"

"I'm going to stop you right there," he interrupts her casually, his face deceptively blank. "It's late, Elena. You're tired and you miss Stefan. That's all this is, okay? You don't have to say anything else."

She softens. It's so easy to tell that he's lying through his teeth. She never thinks about how she knows him better than he ever intended her to; maybe it happened gradually, or maybe it was sudden, the realization that seeing right through him is not a struggle for her. Regardless, his every movement makes sense to her.

And she's never had that before. She's never been so perfectly synced with another person. It's a little scary.

But she doesn't run away from it this time. She just comes closer, taking in every defensive shift of his body unflinchingly. "That isn't all this is," she says slowly. "This is much more than that, and we should talk about it."

He sighs heavily, and for the first time since she's known him, he looks old. Not years-wise, of course; he's never looked a day over 26. But he looks so _tired_, like he's fighting a war he can't win. This past year has clearly taken a toll on him, and it makes her ache.

"What could we possibly have to talk about, Elena?" He asks her, the words pained.

"The way I feel about you," she breathes, rushing forward and touching his arm.

His face twists into something she can only describe as anguish, and he wrenches himself away from her grip, his eyes flooded with sorrow.

"Why do you do this to me?" He whispers, gazing at her with a heartbreaking mixture of pain and resignation. "Why do you give me false hope? You keep saying that you're not ready, that I should wait, that you're _afraid_ or whatever. And you know I'll wait forever if I have to. But you can't mean it halfway. Do you enjoy hurting me? Do you enjoy toying with me?"

She blinks rapidly. This conversation is going in a direction she never intended, and she wants to refute everything he's said. But by now, he's come close enough that she can see the flecks of black in his inimitable blue eyes, and she can't breathe, let alone speak.

"You need to stop being so selfish," he continues, his eyes blazing, ferocious. "Either you want me the same way I want you, or you go home. We can't do this if you're not completely sure."

Tears well in her eyes, and suddenly her hands are on his chest, the heat of his skin (the heat of his heart) scorching her to the bone. She's desperate now. They've both waited far too long for this.

"Well then, I'll stop being so selfish," she says determinedly. "I came here to tell you something, so I'm just going to tell you."

He raises his eyebrows, clearly shocked by these words. He looks intrigued, even though she can tell he's trying his hardest to suppress his curiosity.

She grins. "I'm ready."

His eyes widen infinitesimally, and he rocks back on his heels. His mouth parts as if of its own volition, but he doesn't say anything. He just looks at her, pure and reverent.

And she knows that she wants him to look at her like that forever. It doesn't make sense, but it's what she wants.

(_He's_ what she wants.)

She thinks that she's never really understood what it means to love someone with her whole heart before. Because what she's feeling right now…he has her whole heart.

And it's wonderful.

"You heard me right," she says, touching his cheek. "I'm ready."

He shakes his head, but he doesn't shrink away from her hand.

"But you said only a few days ago that you weren't ready," he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, as if this might all be a cruel trick. "You told me to wait. You can't change your mind that quickly. God, Elena, don't do this. Don't lie to me. Unless you're completely in this, this is never going to work."

She nods, cupping his cheek with her palm. "I know what I said a few days ago," she says, holding his gaze for a long moment that leaves her dazed, "But I'm telling you now, I'm ready. Don't you see, Damon? I've been waiting for you my entire life. You're the one I'm meant to be with. I've been ready for a long time. I just didn't know it."

He still looks incredulous. "But Elena –"

"No, Damon." She shakes her head violently, needing him so much that it's almost a physical ache. "Let's do this. I mean it exactly the same way you do. I'm all in for life."

"For life?" He echoes, stunned.

"For life," she repeats adamantly, clasping her hands with his. Turning has always been in the back of her mind, of course, and she still means what she said to Stefan on what she thought was her last day as a human: she doesn't want to be a vampire. But she does know one thing. Whichever path she chooses, she'll be with Damon. That aspect of eternity doesn't frighten her.

He's quiet for a moment, absorbing this information. His face is unreadable.

Finally, he smiles. But it's not the warm smile he reserves for her, and it's not his trademark smirk. It's a pained and agonized smile.

"Elena, this is a lot for you to decide in a few days," he says carefully, and it's an out she doesn't want. "We've only just lost Stefan. You just got home. This has all got to be really confusing for you. I don't think you –"

"Make love to me," she blurts out.

His eyes go round like saucers.

She could chalk up her demand to how impulsive she gets around him. She could blame those four decisive words on how beautiful he looks right now, dark hair and full lips and bright eyes. She could even argue that she is so tired and delirious (and conflicted, although that's a constant emotion for her) that she can't be held accountable for her actions.

But the truth of the matter is, she has this crazy idea that if she can just kiss him, he'll believe her when she says she's ready. That if she can just hold him and breathe him in and give him everything she has, he'll let her in.

And so she closes what little distance remains between them and pushes herself up on her tiptoes, touching her forehead to his. She closes her eyes and whispers again, "Make love to me."

Her eyes flutter open, and she sees every emotion that flickers across his face. She catches glimpses of hope and disbelief and anger and affection and desire and fear and _love_. Somehow, the lightning-quick flashes are perfect to her.

Somehow, they're what she's been waiting for.

"Now why would I do that?" He asks her softly.

"Because I need you to," she whispers. "Because I think you probably need to, too. Because you make me feel alive. Because you're everything I never knew I wanted, and it's taken me until now to realize that I can't live without you. Because when you almost died, I almost died, too. Because –"

"Not good enough," he growls, pulling her flush against him.

She dips her head back and looks up at him, her gaze brimming with adoration. "Because when I'm with you," she continues, "I'm completely myself. I can't hide from you, Damon. You see right through me. And that's so special. I never want to lose that."

"Why should I believe you?" He asks unsteadily, his eyes bright and hopeful.

She smiles. She doesn't know how she's gone so long without telling him this. It doesn't feel like she woke up one day and decided that she was meant to be his. Instead, it feels like it couldn't be more obvious. Her name is Elena Gilbert, her parents died in a car crash, her best friends are Bonnie Bennett and Caroline Forbes, and she loves Damon Salvatore. Those are the things she would remember if she remembered nothing else.

She realizes that this is her turning point. This is what determines the rest of her life. And she could not be happier.

"Because I love you."

He blinks. "Wha – what?" He stutters, shaking his head. He looks like he's in shock, and she can't blame him for needing to make sure he heard her right. She hasn't made it easy for him to believe her.

She smiles again, twining her arms around his neck. "I love you," she repeats, her voice ringing with a note of sincerity she knows he can't deny. "I know it's taken me a long time to say it, and I'm sorry about that."

She frowns, averting her eyes. She doesn't like thinking about all the mistakes she's made with him, but she can't seem to escape the past.

"I've just been so afraid," she says, looking up at him; she's shocked to find that not a single trace of anger, hostility or any other negative emotion resides in his face. "And I know that's not a good enough excuse, but it's all I can give you. I don't know how to love you halfway. Loving you means giving you all of me, and I wasn't ready for that. But I'm ready now."

She holds her breath, waiting for him to say something. But he just stares at her, and she wants to hit him. Here she is, all vulnerable and brave, and he's not doing _anything_.

"Are you even listening to me?" She snarls angrily, stepping back from him. "I knew I shouldn't have come tonight. I should have known you would react like this. When are you going to stop punishing me for loving Stefan first? It's not my fault, you know. I met him first. What was I supposed to do, abandon him for you? If you think for even a moment that I didn't –"

But suddenly he's kissing her, and whatever she was about to say is lost to his lips forever.

It's a long, luxurious kiss, the kind that means staying up to watch the sunrise and then sleeping all day. It's the kind of kiss that liquefies her bones and makes gold and silver erupt behind her eyelids.

(It's the kind of kiss she's been waiting for all her life.)

He's the first to pull back, and only to stroke her hair. She looks up at him in confusion. What's going on here?

But he's smiling, a smile that radiates joy, a smile that evokes all sorts of complicated feelings in her, the most potent being the feeling of home. It's a smile that means she's home to him, and she wants to cry. Because he's home to her, too. He always has been.

"Say it again," he breathes, his eyes glittering with something she doesn't dare identify as desire.

She shakes her head dumbly. "Say what again?" She is breathless, aching to kiss him, and she has no idea what's going on. She doesn't even remember the whole speech she just gave him.

He laughs, and it's glorious. "You know what," he says fondly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. The touch is so familiar, so natural, so _right_.

She feels like such an idiot. How did she not see this sooner? How did she not _want_ this sooner?

(This is perfection.)

"I love you," she repeats fiercely.

"And I love you," he whispers tenderly, his eyes blazing.

A beat of silence passes, and then suddenly they're both laughing, and his lips are on hers again, and nothing else matters. Suddenly he's speeding her up the stairs, hoisting her up so she can wrap her legs around him comfortably, and she's pressed into him in all the right ways, and it feels like the beginning of something special. Suddenly he's laying her down on his bed, breathing her name like she's the most precious thing he has ever beheld, and she remembers so many things, remembers him almost dying and the kiss they shared and the piercing sorrow of that moment, and she has to hide her face in his shirt, because now she's crying real tears.

He stops kissing her, enveloping her in one of the hugs that has always made her feel safe. "What is it?" He whispers worriedly; there's fear in his voice, as if he's scared that this is the moment when she tells him that this is a mistake and she should go. "What's wrong?"

She pulls away to look into his eyes, the same eyes that have bored into hers so many times. He is so beautiful, and she loves him so much.

"I'm sorry," she says, clutching him tightly. "You said you've done so many things to hurt me, but really it's me who's hurt you. I'm so sorry, Damon. I never meant to hurt you, I didn't. It just happened."

"Hey, hey," he says gently. "Don't be sorry. You're here now. That's what matters." His eyes roam her face, and she cries harder (it shouldn't be possible to feel this complete). "That's all that matters, okay?"

She nods. He waits for a moment. And then, he kisses her again, slowly now, his lips touching her neck and her collarbone and the expanse of skin just above her breasts. And finally, after more than two years of wishing she could just touch him, she lets her hands skim across his strong back, lets her fingers thread in his hair and trail along his face.

He sits up, peeling off his shirt, and her breath hitches in her throat. She's seen him shirtless countless times, but this is different. There is no longer anything separating them. He is completely and utterly hers.

And she is his (she will always be his), so she reaches down and pulls off her shirt. Normally this part of the coming together unnerves her, but she has no doubts about going through with this. She feels free.

He lets out a long breath when he catches sight of her bra-clad chest. He's seen her like this before, too, whether it was when she was in bed with Stefan or when he accidentally (or purposely) saw her partially dressed when she had finished her shower.

But there's a reverence in his eyes that she's never seen before, not even with Stefan, and it humbles her. She realizes with a rush of warmth that she can have nights like this forever (that she _will_ have nights like this forever), nights when he stares at her like she is all he needs to sustain himself.

And suddenly, her fear dissolves. Most of it has disappeared in the past day. But right now, with his eyes lingering on her face like she is some sort of rare exotic creature, her residual doubts dissipate.

She sits up and presses her lips to his, breathing him in. She pushes him backwards until she's lying on top of him, making her intention clear. She wants him to know that this is what she wants. She wants him to know that she wants all of him, everything, no matter what.

She slides off of him and starts to undo her jeans. She expects him to want to do this part, but he just watches her, his gaze hungry. She should feel self-conscious, but the heat of his gaze makes her hazy with desire. So she takes her time, relishing every frustrated growl he lets out.

Once she's almost nude, she takes the liberty of undoing his jeans, too, dragging the rough fabric down his legs as quickly as she can. She surprises herself with just how anxious she is, but she knows it's because she's never really allowed herself to feel how attracted she is to him. She has no need to deny the magnetism between them anymore. She gives in to it, and it's one of the most powerful things she's ever encountered.

(The other being, of course, the way they love each other.)

She lies back on top of him and kisses him hard, letting herself feel how acutely beautiful this moment is.

"Wait," he says urgently, pulling back from her. His eyes dim; she can tell he's dialing down his hope, thinking that at any moment, she could change her mind.

She touches his cheek. She wishes she could explain to him that she could never run away from this, but she knows he has to get this out.

"Are you sure?" He asks her seriously. "You have to be sure, Elena. Because if we do this, there's no going back."

She nods, leaning forward to capture her lips with his. It's a light, brief kiss, and still, the rightness of it sends shock waves roiling through her body (it's tangible proof that she made the right choice coming here tonight).

"I'm sure, Damon," she promises him, resting her forehead against his. "I don't think I've ever been more sure about anything in my life. I love you. I know that for sure."

He nods, but he still looks hesitant, like he worries that in the morning, when everything's brighter and there's nowhere to hide, she'll regret this. (She knows already that no matter what happens after tonight, being with him will make everything worth it.)

She sighs. She doesn't want to stop them before they started, but she knows she needs to placate him if she wants this to work out. "I know we have a lot to talk about," she begins wearily, "But –

"Yes, we do have a lot to talk about," he interrupts her darkly.

She faux-glares at him, shoving him playfully. "Like I said, I _know_ we have a lot to talk about," she repeats, tracing the lines of his centuries-old face. "And we'll talk about everything, I promise. Tomorrow."

He raises his eyebrows. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Just give me tonight," she coaxes. "Tomorrow we can discuss all of our issues and whatever. But let me have tonight."

He mulls this over for a moment, and she takes advantage of his distraction and kisses him again, trying to convince him with her lips that she's not going anywhere.

He relents, whispering in her ear, "Tomorrow."

She nods, and they stare at each other for a long moment, paralyzed by the realization that they are here. They are here and they are _together_. She knows that neither of them really believed that it was possible, but here they are.

And it's even more wonderful than they imagined.

After that, it's a blur of tangled limbs and sighs, of moans and discarded clothing. They are so intertwined that she can't tell where he ends and she begins, but she thinks that it was always supposed to be like this. It simply could not have been any other way. She is supposed to be with him. That is the only truth she can be completely sure of.

Right before it all begins, he kisses her, long and sweet. She's used to a bit of hesitation in this moment, a spot of doubt, as if there's something off. But not here. Not tonight.

(Not with him.)

Instead, as he enters her for the first of many times, his eyes meet hers and he whispers with a certainty that could never frighten her, "I love you, Elena."

She bites her lip, overcome by the force of a love more powerful than both of them, and nods. "I love you, Damon."

And then, she is his and he is hers and nothing else will ever, ever matter.

…

When it's over, she expects him to push her away, to pull away. But he simply holds her tighter, kissing the top of her head with a sweetness that brings tears to her eyes. She swallows a joyful sob and curls her head into the hollow beneath his neck. He smells like hope.

(He smells like home.)

…

She's lying in his arms, drawing patterns on his bare chest and thinking that she's never belonged anywhere more than she belongs here, when she sees something that gives her pause.

"Look, Damon," she whispers in wonder, scrambling out of his arms and running to the window, pressing her hands up to the frigid glass. "Snow."

He's slow to get up, ambling over to her like he has all the time in the world; he's seen plenty of first snows in his lifetime. She's acutely aware of his nakedness as he comes up behind her, but it feels strangely right. They shouldn't hide anything from each other anymore. It wouldn't be right.

He wraps his arms around her and kisses her collarbone, whispering, "Snow." His voice is low and soft. It's _beautiful._

She leans back against him, twining her fingers with his affectionately. In the morning, they'll work through all their issues, rehash their many mistakes and reconcile their pasts. But for now, they stand there in the darkness and watch the lightly falling snow for a long while, just breathing each other in.

She knows for certain that this is the happiest she has ever been.

And now, only now, does she realize that with him, forever wouldn't be long enough.

_tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know your thoughts! Update sometime this week.<strong>


	10. Awake My Soul

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay. School started this week, so I've been ridiculously busy – too busy to even put the finishing touches on this chapter, honestly. (On that note, sorry I haven't responded to all your amazing reviews. I'm posting this chapter and then answering, I promise!) Plus, I really didn't want this story to end :(**

**But at some point, this story will have to end, and I can't keep you guys waiting much longer. So now…the last chapter. **

**I have to tell you all that this has been a truly magnificent experience for me. All of you who are reading this story have made it so special to me. Thank you so much.**

**Chapter title from song of the same name. Thank you so much to Mountain-Woman; I love you. Thank you to all of you, and please enjoy.**

_Love, it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,  
><em>_It will set you free  
><em>_Be more like the man you were made to be.  
><em>_There is a design, an alignment, a cry,  
><em>_Of my heart to see,  
><em>_The beauty of love  
><em>_As it was made to be.  
><em>_- "Sigh No More" by Mumford & Sons_

Christmas morning dawns bright and clear, and Damon can't help the grin that spreads across his face when he opens his eyes to a sea of white. Snow has long since ceased to be magical to him, but he can't deny that he has a newfound appreciation for it. After all, it makes Elena happy.

His arms tighten around his extraordinary girl, and she shifts, letting out one of those delicious moans that he remembers well. He knows that last night was not a dream, but it feels surreal, as if the way she smiled up at him with eyes brimming with tears and the breath she let out as she whispered that she loves him happened in another universe.

But he doesn't dwell on what the night meant. For once, he allows himself to simply live in the moment, to bask in the warmth of the beautiful girl breathing peacefully in his arms.

As the sun rises, Damon kisses the top of Elena's head and realizes that this is what love feels like.

…

She awakens just as the antique clock in the corner of his room chimes nine a.m. Her body starts to come alive, her limbs pushing against him, her long hair tickling his chin. She stretches her arms above her head, then nestles into him further.

"Morning," she whispers, pressing her lips to his neck and sending a delightful shiver through him.

He tentatively smoothes her silky hair, and she purrs, a sound that surprises him. It's uninhibited, passionate, pure.

Real.

He can't shrink away from the love in the sound, so he murmurs tenderly, "Morning."

She smiles.

They're quiet for a long moment that is at once relaxing and terrifying. Relaxing because Elena Gilbert (i.e. the only woman he has ever loved and will ever love) is lying in his arms and seems perfectly content not to move. Terrifying because he doesn't do domesticity; his love for her has never been a boring, routine thing. He doesn't think it would survive being confined, not even by her.

But he reminds himself that she promised they would talk. It's not quite tomorrow. And besides, it's Christmas. He can afford to relish the simple perfection of Elena wrapped in his arms for now.

Finally, though, her eyes flutter open, and she sighs happily.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, her voice full of wonder. "Damon, the snow is so beautiful."

He squeezes her tighter. "If I said you were beautiful," he wonders aloud, smiling devilishly (these types of comments are almost guaranteed to get him laid), "Would that be too cheesy?"

She goes very still, as if he's surprised her. He worries that he's said something wrong, or pushed too far. But she just twists in his arms so she can look up at him (her breasts press into his chest, and he suppresses a groan). She's grinning.

Her eyes dancing, she smirks, "You wouldn't be going for a repeat of last night, now would you, Mr. Salvatore?"

He smiles innocently, pushing his lower half into hers and drinking in her startled gasp. She narrows her eyes, that feline gaze that never fails to ignite every nerve ending in his body.

"I don't think you'd need much convincing," he points out, growling as his lips swerve near hers.

She closes her eyes. He can tell that she's trying to resist him, to stop him before they get too lost in each other. But now that he's had a taste of her, he doesn't think it's possible to restrain himself. He's pressed into her already, and the sheer _rightness_ of the moment sends him reeling.

(Besides, if this day ends with her proclaiming it will never work out between them, he needs to have her _just one more time_.)

So he takes advantage of her momentary silence and captures her lips with his.

He expects her to draw back, or at least murmur a half-hearted protest against his mouth. But she responds eagerly, throwing her arms around him and grinding her hips into his.

And she tastes exactly like he remembers: lilies and laughter and _hope_. He hungers for her lips; he knows that he'll never want to kiss anyone else.

In one swift movement, he rolls them over so he's on top of her. It's exactly like it was the night before: he pauses to admire how pert and curvaceous her irresistible body is, but mostly he just wants to pinch himself. He's kissing _Elena_. Elena, the only woman he wants and the only one he thought he could never have. He's _kissing_ her.

(He doesn't think the shock will ever fade.)

He never thought that kissing someone could be this…electrifying. He feels every single part of her, and it's absolutely heavenly. The longer it goes on, the more he realizes that he doesn't want to talk about all their "issues" and all that shit. He doesn't want to talk about Stefan; he doesn't want to talk about all the times he's royally fucked up (killing her brother and compelling her to forget that he loves her and forcing her to drink his blood). He just wants to lie here forever (preferably inside her) and kiss her.

He drops his head, placing light, suggestive kisses on her neck. She gasps for air, breathing heavily, and he knows he's got her trapped.

(These are the things he catalogued last night, when he wasn't busy marveling at how smoothly he glided into her.)

But her hands are suddenly hot on his shoulders, pushing him upward, and he pauses in his remonstrations, surprised. He's not used to women stopping him, not like this, and Elena is no exception.

Her eyes are pleading, set in a familiar picture of indecision. It's a face he knows so well (it's the face she's worn for the past six months), and he shies away. He doesn't think he can handle any more rejection from her.

But she touches his face, affection seeping into her gaze. "I need you to understand something," she says quietly, stroking his cheek with something he knows is love. She shifts, sending her lower half careening into his, and he groans inwardly.

_God_, the things she does to him without even trying.

"I'm going to be a little melodramatic here," she warns him shakily. She looks…insecure, and he's dumbfounded. She knows that he loves her. In fact, she's been aware of his feelings for some time now. She has no reason to look so worried.

But he nods.

"Sometimes when I'm close to you," she whispers, averting her eyes as if she's embarrassed, "All I can think is that if I don't touch you, I will _die_."

He blinks rapidly; he's speechless. That's exactly how he would describe it. Being near her is pure torture, because he _aches_ to collide with her.

But he doesn't know how to tell her that she's basically just voiced his own thoughts, so he deflects (like he always does).

"Well, that _is_ a little melodramatic, but –"

She glares at him.

"And I would give _anything_," she stresses, gripping his shoulders almost painfully, "Anything at all, never to lose that. I can't lose that, Damon. It's the one thing that makes me feel alive."

He blinks again. _What_?

She nods vehemently. "You make me feel alive," she repeats, "And that's something that matters, so much more than I used to think it did. No matter how much we've fought, no matter how many times we've hurt each other –" he winces, and she vaults herself up to press her lips lightly to his (it's a reminder that all is forgiven) – "You've always made me want to fight to survive."

She pauses, and he digests this. Once again, he could say the exact same thing about her. Sometimes he hates her as much as he loves her, but she always makes him want to fight for his humanity.

"I need you to understand how sorry I am," she murmurs. "And I need you to understand that when I tell you I love you –" he feels his dead heart skip a beat – "I mean it more than you can possibly imagine."

He's about to reassure her that the fact that he loves her is the only thing he can be absolutely sure of. But she seems to know this – or, at least, she seems to think that he's the only one who needs convincing – because she shakes her head.

"I want this to work," she breathes.

He nods vigorously. "I do, too."

"I _need_ this to work," she continues, "And it's because I love you as much as I do that I think we need to take a step backward. I'm afraid that if we don't talk about everything that's happened between us, it's always going to be there. And one day it'll destroy us."

She hangs her head, snuggling into his chest. "And I don't think I could bear that," she admits, pain coating the words.

He glides his lips across her forehead, whispering against her familiar olive skin, "That won't happen."

She looks at him imploringly. "You don't know that," she insists, a single tear pearling on her eyelashes. "I've been so horrible to you, and if you don't understand why, we'll never survive. I think we owe it to ourselves to explore what we can be, and we can't do that if we don't get over our issues first."

He peers down at her skeptically. That little spiel should have sounded desperate and needy, but she is so determined that he's in awe. It dawns on him that she's fighting for them. Just like she fought for the lives of everyone she loves, she's going to fight for them. Their relationship is that important to her.

The thought is humbling.

He rolls off of her reluctantly. "I _hate_ when you're right," he grumbles.

She smiles cheekily. "But you love me," she sing-songs, resting one hand on his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He leans over and kisses her. "But I love you," he agrees.

He notices suddenly that she hasn't pulled the covers over her chest, and he can't look away. She's always been positively _delectable_ to him, and loving her has only made his attraction to her more potent. He knows he could have her a million times and still want more.

But he grits his teeth and smiles tightly. "So we'll talk?" He bites out, clenching the sheets in his fist so he doesn't grab her.

"We'll talk later," she promises, squeezing his arm for emphasis, "But now –" she shoots a glance over to the clock, squinting as the sunlight begins to pour in through the windows – "Now it's nine thirty and we have to get over to my house. Caroline will never let it go if I miss Christmas morning."

He waits for her to say what they're both thinking: _They're going to know something happened between us last night if we're late_.

But she just grins brightly, a happy light shining in her eyes. "It's _Christmas morning_, Damon," she breathes, so joyously that she almost sounds like she's singing. "We have to be there."

He's about to groan (Christmas morning doesn't sound appealing at all), but then he catches sight of the laugh lines around her mouth, and he stops himself. She laughed more on their road trip to nowhere than she did before, but he knows she was never really happy. She looks happy right now. And although it makes him intolerably whipped for her, he can't deny that he'll do anything to make her happy.

(Even celebrate a holiday he hasn't marked on his calendar in more than a century and a half.)

He nods and pastes a smile on his face, standing up. He purposely doesn't take the sheet with him, trying to gauge her reaction to his naked body.

And there it is: she sits up almost immediately, lust flooding her eyes. She looks ready to pounce.

He shakes his head disapprovingly (secretly he's pleased that he can render her this defenseless against him). "No, no," he warns, taking a step back, away from the seductive heat of her gaze, which is currently sweeping the length of his body hungrily. "There'll be none of _that_ at your house. Need I remind you that your _brother_ will be there?"

But this reminder does nothing to deter her; she licks her lips.

"We'll see," she purrs.

He takes another step back, putting his hands up as a barrier. Obviously he can easily overpower her if she tries to rush at him, but the yearning evident in her every movement suggests otherwise.

"You said we needed to talk," he gasps desperately. He looks down at himself out of instinct, but realizes that was a horrible idea. He's as ready as she is.

He swallows painfully. He can't take much more of this.

She smirks, throwing off the covers and striding over to him in all her olive-skinned, long-haired glory. She draws up in front of him, trailing one finger across his chest. It's nearly impossible to resist her when she's this close, but he holds his ground.

"And we will talk," she says, her voice a throaty rumble that he scarcely recognizes. "Later. No one said anything about Christmas morning, though." She pauses, her hand resting suggestively on his hip. "Did we?"

He shakes his head dumbly, barely able to believe what he's seeing. He can't reconcile this bonnified sex kitten with the sensible and responsible Elena he sees on a day-to-day basis. This is a different creature entirely. But then, he thinks, no onehas ever seen this side of her before (sultry and sensual and downright _devious_) – not even Stefan.

The thought of his brother should send spasms of sharp pain through him. But as she sashays into his bathroom, he can only think one thing: _Oh, boy_.

This is going to be interesting.

…

When they arrive at Elena's house at last, he finds himself inordinately nervous.

True, Elena routinely makes him nervous, whether by virtue of her delicious body or the way she says his name, all pleading and hopeful and _caring_. But this is different. Her hand is firmly clasped with his, she's smiling more brightly than he's seen in a _long_ time, and they're standing on her front porch.

The same porch, he realizes, where he kissed Katherine and thought it was her. The same porch where he told her he could compel Jeremy to forget what happened to Vicki. The same porch where he officially lost her forever.

And yet, here they stand. Despite all the fights and mistakes and misunderstandings, despite all the _pain_…they've managed to find each other.

He's so overcome by that realization that he turns to her, unwilling to go any longer without making sure that she knows that he's in this for life, too (he's in this for so much longer than that, but they can talk about that particular issue later).

"Elena," he whispers urgently.

She looks at him, her eyes wide and a little afraid. "What, Damon?"

"I just need to tell you that I'm going to fight for us, too," he says, watching her eyes widen further, this time in delighted surprise. "I want this to work just as badly as you do. Maybe more," he adds, shrugging, because the semantics don't matter. "I love you, Elena. You're the most important thing in my life."

Her face softens. "Damon," she whispers gently.

He shakes his head, his gaze lingering on the promise in her eyes and the declaration in her smile. "No," he says. "I don't want you to think that you're alone in this. We're going to start over, you and me, and together we're going to make sure that we last. I'll do whatever it takes, because you're it for me, Elena. You always have been."

He barely has time to take a breath before she launches herself at him and presses her lips to his.

It's an enthusiastic kiss, and one brimming with released tension. He realizes that she was worried he wasn't as committed to fixing them as she was, and so he kisses her harder, intent on communicating every ounce of the undeniable love he feels for her. He tastes salt on her lips; she's crying, the happiest tears he's ever seen.

He pulls back at last, stroking her damp cheek and smiling broadly.

And then, of course, the door swings open.

It's just their luck that it's Bonnie and Caroline, erupting with worried queries: "Where have you been, Elena?" and "You're an hour late for Christmas morning, guys" and "Why are you _crying_?"

But the two girls quiet down when they notice the way Damon and Elena are standing: faced towards each other, their lips almost touching, both grinning.

Bonnie stares at them shrewdly.

"Oh my God," she says excitedly, her gaze flitting between Damon and Elena, who shift their weight awkwardly and studiously avoid looking at each other. "You two didn't –"

"I'm just going to go open some presents now," Elena interjects pointedly.

Bonnie shakes her head. "Oh no you're not," she insists, reaching out to grab Elena's free hand and tug her into the house. "First you're going to tell me if you're okay."

"I'm more than okay," Elena says, squeezing Damon's hand meaningfully. "I'm happy."

Caroline squeals, loud and high-pitched but, remarkably, pleasant. "We have to talk about this, Elena!" She proclaims, tugging Elena's other hand free of Damon's.

Elena sends him a helpless, pleading look, but he laughs. He's always admired Bonnie (she's one of the only people he's ever met who refuses to fear him), and he adores Caroline, even if he'll never tell her that (he prefers to let the depth of his affection go unspoken).

And really, he can protect Elena all he wants (and he will), and he can make love to her all he wants (and he _will_). But her best friends offer her something completely different, something he knows she needs.

So he smiles warmly at Elena and walks past the three girls currently nestled in a snug embrace.

He spots Alaric, who smiles from his perch on the living room couch, and he knows he's home.

…

Christmas morning is hectic and lovely. No one else seems to think it odd – the Bennetts, Forbes and Gilberts have celebrated Christmas together since they were little kids, and Alaric grew up in a big family – but Damon finds it off-putting. Christmas wasn't a huge tradition in his house when he was growing up, especially after his mother died, and as a vampire he has never cared much for the holiday.

But as he sits on the couch and watches everyone unwrapping presents (some suggestive, some funny, some sentimental), he decides to just go with it.

Because Stefan may have come back to Mystic Falls to start a life, but Damon knows that he started one here, too.

(For once, the thought doesn't make him itch.)

…

He's touched when he receives several presents. Caroline gives him a black John Varvatos shirt, saying that he can never have enough of a classic. Jeremy offers him the most interesting Jonathan Gilbert journal. Alaric gives him a picture of the two of them at the Grill (he doesn't remember taking it and realizes they must have been drunk out of their minds). Even Bonnie offers him a Bennett ring as a token of gratitude for the decades he's spent protecting her bloodline.

And then, there's only Elena.

She's uncharacteristically shy; she doesn't look at him as she hands him an unobtrusive square package.

He peers at her questioningly, then shifts his gaze to her best friends. But Bonnie and Caroline are chattering about something he has no interest in debating. Alaric and Jeremy are discussing Call of Duty or something asinine like that. It's clear that this moment is strictly between Damon and Elena. They're not going to get involved.

He unwraps the package warily, willing Elena to look at him. But she stares at the ground, swinging her hair over her face so he can't see her.

He wishes he could spend more time dissecting her clearly uncomfortable stance, but he's more interested in the package she just gave him. When did she have time to get this? He's been her with her almost nonstop for the past six months.

Regardless, it's a picture frame. It's blank and unremarkable: simple mahogany with space for maybe a 6x8 photo. It's generic, except…

Except for the inscription that reads: _For all the memories we haven't made yet_.

He chokes up. He's not usually this emotional, and he doesn't like being vulnerable, not even with her. But she's touched something in him with those simple words, something he thought he'd lost long ago. She's touched the part of him that longs to make a future with someone.

(The part of him that's human.)

He's about to rush at her and kiss her (screw their unspoken agreement to be discreet, screw the people watching, screw _everything_), but then a piece of paper flutters down from the wrapping paper. He unfolds it eagerly, and the words she's written shock him:

_Damon,_

_We have a lot to talk about. We don't agree about much, but I think we can both agree that there are things we have to discuss before we can move forward. As much as I want to just start over with you and worry about our past later, we both know we can't do that._

_So I propose that we take one final road trip. It feels important, maybe because road trips have always brought us together._

_Will you come with me to Georgia?_

_Yours,_

_Elena_

_P.S. I love you._

He looks up at her in surprise. "Georgia?" He asks incredulously. "You want to go back to _Georgia_?"

It's as if the spell keeping her frozen has broken; she nods eagerly. "Atlanta," she clarifies, shooting him one of her irresistibly mischievous smiles. "It's our place, after all."

He shakes his head, in awe of her (every moment she gives him more reasons to love her). "You are one piece of work."

She just smiles, and he knows he'll do whatever she asks.

…

Elena and Damon leave for Atlanta after lunch. Elena tells Caroline and Bonnie that she and Damon need to sort some things out and a road trip is the best way to do that; Damon confides in Alaric and Jeremy that if a ten-hour drive is what it takes to make things work, then he's sure as hell going to take a ten-hour drive.

They don't say much as they set out, simply resuming their usual perches in Damon's car.

She stares out the window, he at the road. It's oddly comfortable.

(They've always been comfortable with each other.)

…

As they breeze through Blacksburg, South Carolina, Elena opens her mouth.

"We have about three and a half hours before we reach Atlanta," she announces authoritatively, turning to face Damon, who keeps his gaze fixed warily on the road.

"I know you have a lot of questions," she continues, her tone even and measured, as if she's trying to hide whatever she's feeling. "So just have at it. Ask me anything you want, and I'll tell you the truth. I've never lied to you before, and I won't start now."

He blinks at her. Where did that speech _come_ from? (He thought this conversation would happen in Atlanta.)

And besides, he feels like they've already said everything that needs to be said (road trips tend to do that). He knows why it took her so long to accept how she feels about him. He doesn't agree with how she handled the situation, but all he can do now is move forward.

So he just rolls his shoulders, a reflexive movement that doesn't feel nearly as smooth as it seems. "I only have one question, really," he says slowly. "Why'd you fight it for so long?"

If he doesn't understand her answer to this question, they're not going to get anywhere.

(And he'll do anything to go _everywhere_ with her.)

She's silent for a long moment, and it makes him nervous.

"Because it means so much," she whispers at last, her voice tender and soft. "I had to be sure, Damon. I couldn't be like Katherine, toying with both of you. I had to be sure what I wanted. And for a long time, what I wanted was Stefan. It didn't seem fair to either of you to pretend otherwise."

She takes an unsteady breath. "And then, by the time I wasn't so sure who I wanted…there was so much going on," she murmurs, the words pained (he knows she's remembering Caroline turning and Rose kidnapping her and all those other horrible things, and he squeezes her hand). "I was fighting for my life. It was all I had time to focus on. I couldn't stand any more change, not then. It was selfish, but I couldn't risk it. I knew it would change everything. The timing wasn't right."

"The timing's _never_ right," he says, scowling, barely resisting the urge to snatch his hand away from hers. He intended to keep quiet and let her finish, but he can't stop himself. How _dare_ she?

But she just holds his hand tighter. "I'm not saying it was right," she points out, "And I'm not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to understand. I fought it because I was a coward. Loving you is the bravest thing I've ever done."

He blinks, for probably the millionth time this morning alone. He wants to remember that sentence forever, wants to memorize the way her lips looked as they formed those improbable words.

But she's already saying something else.

"All my life I've done the right thing," she says, holding his gaze. "I'm the steady one, the dependable one. Stefan was the easy choice, the choice that everyone wanted me to make. But you…" She trails off, shaking her head in wonder, and he holds his breath. "You make me _matter_, Damon. When I'm with you, I don't feel like the doppelganger, or the girl whose parents died in a car crash. You make me feel like what I want matters. And what I want is you."

He's dumbfounded. How the hell did he get so goddamn lucky?

"And what about turning?" He manages to choke out. He doesn't mean to ask her this, but it slips out.

"I'm not sure," she answers, not missing a beat. "When you forced me to drink your blood, I realized that I don't want to be a vampire. I haven't lived yet. But a few more years…who knows, really? All I know is that I have to be with you. No matter what else happens, you're the one I need to be with."

He simply nods. He's satisfied.

She waits for half a moment, and then, she fires at him, "When did you first realize you actually cared about me?"

He's a bit taken aback by this question, and he has to think about it for a while.

"It started when you told me you were sorry about Katherine at our impromptu dinner party," he murmurs finally, stroking her fingers as he lets himself get taken away by the fond memory. "No one had ever put themselves in my shoes before, but you did. Even though you were already head over heels for Stefan, you still tried to imagine how I felt. That was special. It sort of crept over me, caring about you. And then when you got in that accident…"

He closes his eyes. He doesn't like remembering the night he found her upside down in her car, tears streaking her face. He can still smell her fear, can still hear her whimpers, can still see the vampire stalking towards her.

"I felt so protective of you," he admits. "Before that, it was easy to convince myself that I could hurt you. It was easy to tell myself that because you were Stefan's, you were nothing to me. But seeing you so helpless…I cared, Elena. From that moment on, it was impossible not to."

He's sure she has more questions for him; how could she not? But she just nods, a smile flitting across her face, and snuggles into him. His arm goes automatically around her, and she lets out a happy breath.

For the next hour, they simply sit like that.

…

As soon as they reach Bree's Bar (well, he supposes Bree doesn't own it anymore, but that's a moot point), she jumps out and runs around to his side of the car, folding him in a stronger embrace than he imagined her capable of. He responds enthusiastically, but draws away when he feels tears bleed through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"What is it?" He asks urgently, catching the moisture with his thumbs. "What's wrong?"

"You almost died here," she whispers, her face stricken, the words pained.

And then, as if it's as simple as that (although they both know that it's infinitely more complicated), she extricates herself from the hold of his arms and fixes her gaze on his car.

"I can pinpoint the exact moment I stopped thinking of you as a heartless killer," she says softly, tracing the battered lines of his Camaro. "It was here, of course. Right here." She points to a spot on the ground, her eyes glazing over.

"God, so much changed on that one day…." She breaks off, looking into the distance.

"Lexi's boyfriend was trying to kill you," she continues, her voice betraying her pain. "He was trying to kill you, and for some reason, I couldn't imagine my world without you."

He stumbles a little at this revelation. Even back then, she couldn't live without him?

(What the _hell_?)

"Everything would be a little darker, a little dimmer," she whispers, her gaze coming back to meet his. "I knew it would feel like I'd lost something important."

She comes closer to him, lifting a hand to graze his cheek. It's a touch that sets him on fire. "Something I needed," she murmurs, smiling.

"And you looked so helpless lying there on the ground," she says; he wants to hold her, to remind her that he didn't die and he won't die. "You didn't look anything like the guy who took advantage of Caroline. You just looked…you looked like a small child who only wanted to be loved."

He wants to cry. How is it possible that she understood him so completely then, understood that he'd suffered so much in his long existence that kindness was foreign to him? How does it even make _sense_?

"So I begged for your life," she continues matter-of-factly, oblivious to the wonder that's written across his face. "All I could think was that you had to survive another day. All I remember is crying, screaming 'please' over and over again. It was all I could say. You were all I could _feel_."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "And suddenly," she says, "I knew that you meant something to me. I knew that you weren't a monster at all. You were just broken. That was the beginning for me."

He shakes his head, awestruck. He feels so many things for this girl, all of them good.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" He breathes, closing the distance between them and skimming her cheeks with his fingers. "All this time, and you never said anything."

She nods, her eyes shining with fresh tears. "It was too fragile," she whispers, leaning into him gratefully. "_We_ were too fragile. It meant too much, you and me. I couldn't lose it. I'm sorry I was never brave enough, Damon. I'm sorry it took so long."

He can barely hear her by the time she's finished, and he collides with her, resting his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes, unbearably touched for reasons he has no desire to fathom.

"You don't have to be sorry," he tells her firmly. "It's enough that you're here."

They linger there for a while, just breathing each other in. He thinks he could stay like this forever.

"For a long time you thought you weren't good enough for me," she says unexpectedly, reaching up to trace the lines of his face (she's never touched him so tenderly, so meaningfully, and it's everything). "I even feel like you told me you didn't deserve me once, but I don't remember –"

"I told you I loved you," he explains haltingly, unable to bear her faltering words (unable to go any longer without confessing the secret he's held inside for so long). "And then I made you forget."

She pulls back abruptly; he feels the absence of her like the absence of the sun on his face. He opens his eyes, sure he'll find pain, anger and a myriad of other unfortunate emotions in her face.

But she looks…sad.

"Why?" She asks, her voice small and vulnerable.

He's quiet for a moment. He needs to choose his words carefully; he doesn't want to scare her away or give her the wrong impression.

"I had to tell you," he explains unsteadily, taking her face in his hands (she doesn't shrink away, which he takes as a good sign). "I couldn't keep it in any longer. I was ready to explode. I just…I had to tell you."

He looks away, suddenly speechless. He can't comprehend that he's telling her this. He never imagined he'd confess this memory so soon, and it's a bit unnerving.

"But you didn't need to know," he says, persevering. "It wouldn't have done you any good to know. You would have felt bad; you would have felt guilty. I didn't want that for you."

"What about you?" She asks pointedly, crossing her arms. It's a defiant stance, as per usual.

"I was afraid you'd push me away," he says honestly, sweeping his fingers from her temple to her jawline. "I knew you didn't love me, and I didn't want to hear you say again that it would always be Stefan. I couldn't bear it. So I made you forget."

She stares at him. He can't tell what she's thinking, and that's terrifying. It's when she's most enigmatic that she wreaks the most havoc.

But finally, she nods. "I think I deserved to know."

"It was wrong of me," he concedes, looking into her eyes for any signs that she's ready to call this whole thing off. "I had no right to take your memory away."

"No, you didn't," she agrees.

He waits, more scared than he's willing to admit.

"But I understand why you did it," she says at last.

"That's good," he says, breathing a shaky sigh of relief. "I thought you were going to run away or something."

She smiles cheekily, then suddenly turns serious. "Look," she begins hesitantly, insecurity flooding her eyes, "Last night meant just about everything to me."

"It meant everything to me, too," he says quietly.

Her entire face lights up.

"We've talked about our issues," she continues, reaching up to lean her forehead against his once more, "And we'll keep talking. But I want to start living, Damon. I want to start loving you. How do you feel about that?"

"That sounds perfect," he admits, meaning it entirely. He can't wait to just be with her. It feels like he's been searching all his life for her, and now that he's found her, he just wants to love her forever.

She grins widely, and he knows that no one has ever been happier than he is right now.

But he realizes that there's one more thing they have to talk about.

"I haven't completely changed, you know," he warns her, running a hand through his hair nervously. "I still think about sex more than anything else, besides blood, of course, and I –"

She giggles, clapping her hand over her mouth when he glares at her. It's the sound he loves to hate (she only giggles when he's done something embarrassing).

"I'm serious, Elena," he says. "I'm still going to drink human blood – blood bags, but still. I'm not Stefan; I'm never going to be Stefan."

"I don't _want_ you to be Stefan," she interjects heatedly, clutching his shoulder like her touch proves her point (and somehow, it does).

"What I'm trying to say," he continues, needing to get this out before she says something that will completely distract him, "Is that I'm going to make mistakes. I don't know how to be in a relationship. I've never really been in one before, and I can't guarantee that I'll be good at it. Even with you, I'm going to mess up."

"Of course," she says, nodding. "We both know I'm going to mess up, too. We're too stubborn for our own good."

She pulls back to look at him, stroking his cheek. "But that's why I love you, you know," she says fondly. "You push me. You challenge me. You make me so aware that I'm _alive_."

She shrugs. "So we'll fight a little."

"A lot," he says wryly.

"A lot," she amends, grinning and twining her arms around his neck almost offhandedly, as if the gesture is natural (he can't wait for the day when it doesn't even surprise him). "But at the end of the day, we'll still love each other. It won't be easy, of course. It will be very, very hard. But at the risk of sounding cliché, the best things in life are worth fighting for. _We're_ worth fighting for."

There's a lump in his throat, but he fights past it. "Always," he whispers, the word heavy with emotion.

Her eyes water, and he leans in to kiss her. It's a long and sweet kiss, the kind of kiss he can only give her because he knows they have all the time in the world. A relationship with her sounds absolutely blissful. It doesn't scare him at all.

He supposes that's what love does, though: it makes you brave.

"There's one more thing you should know," she murmurs against his lips when they break for air.

He looks at her warily. He's not sure he can take any more monumental confessions.

But she just touches his cheek, her eyes bright. "You're everything I ever wanted," she whispers. "I just didn't know it yet."

He can't help himself; he leans down and captures her lips with his again. He knows, right then and there, that he'll only love her more as the days goes by.

And that, he realizes, is the kind of love he's been looking for all his life.

_fin_

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><p><strong>Thank you all so much for reading.<strong>


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